Excerpt: Halfway to God

The beginning of a story is always the hardest. Where does a story begin? Perhaps I’ve begun too early, or too late.

Nevertheless, this is the beginning of my story, and it begins in front of a door of a Glass House at night. It was a very distinguished door, and I’ve known no other, except maybe the White Door. It was very large – perhaps so large a tree can be planted right in the middle and there would still be room for someone to enter or exit. The inscription on top of the door was written in a language forgotten in the ages, much like the doorway to a certain mine once upon a fairytale. But that is not my tale.

Now this part is less certain. I could never be sure whether someone was holding my hand, or whether I was merely alone, and wishing that someone would hold my hand. I always remember something different each time. Sometimes, if there was a hand, it would be cold, yet I would not let go for the entire world. Sometimes, if there was no hand, my own hand will hang emptily by my side, wishing for another companion. My other hand was in my pocket, in which I found lint and a bit of string that I fingered lightly out of habit.

And this is the part when I remember that there was a hand, because someone’s hand, certainly not my own, had reached up and knocked on the door. Once, twice; it opened easily and as quiet as the snow falling in the space between the door and myself.

Who greeted us, but the blue-eyed angel? They say first impressions are the strongest, and I believe it’s true. Even after all this time, I still think, Ah, what a benevolent Servant of God he must be. What caught my attention the most was neither the fact that his eyes was as if they were not eyes but a piece of the sky, nor the fact that his hair, like spun gold, fell gracefully to his shoulders, framing his seraphic and kind face. A halo formed around his head – a saint. Perhaps it was a trick of the light or maybe I had hallucinated, but it made him seem all the more glorious.

He reached out to me, and I, without batting an eyelash, took his hand and followed him into the Glass House.

~~

Have I ever mentioned the string I used to carry in my pocket always? You gave it to me, and told me that if I ever became lost, wherever I was, you would be holding the other end. When I grew up, I realized that what you said was false and true. You were never holding onto the other side, but you were on the other side of a connection, of our connection, which you used the string to symbolize. It made me happy, because I always knew that you were thinking of me as I always think of you and longing for me as I long for you; yet it made me sad, for I could not feel your presence beside me, could not hear your voice nor could I see your face. So when I felt completely and utterly alone, I reached into my pocket and found comfort in the simple piece of string, the other side of which you were holding onto.

This was such a time, a time of absolute solitude. I had lost your name, as I have lost your face. I felt you disappearing. I couldn’t remember your scent, the way you looked when you smiled at me, your arms around me... I put my hands in my pocket, and found that I had none. I was wearing clothes that I had not worn before. I know this because this, too, like the bed and the room, it had my scent seeped within the fibres of its being, but I did not remember ever sleeping in this particular bed, living in this particular room, wearing these particular clothes. I was confused.

But not for long, for my confusion was immediately overridden by an abrupt interruption.