Pact

First you die, and then I do. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but they’ll think this was all my idea that way. You thought of that, remember? I don’t mind. I’ve never minded. Also, it’ll be easier on you this way; don’t think I don’t know that. I’ll hold your hand until you go, and then I will follow right behind you. It’ll be easy. I remember, when we were kids, we played a game where our backyards met—your yard and my yard. Our parents’ yards. There were invisible lines you and I could detect subtly. You were better at this than I was. You pointed to a line, calling it by name, and, there, there!, yes, I said, there’s a line. It goes that way. Yes, I see it too. We’d follow it to the end. I’ve been thinking about this a lot while seeing friends here in the city. The memory is over-exposed, shot-white. I’ve worn it all out. All the thinking of you and your invisible lines. And I know you said there isn’t anything after this, only mystery, but what if that mystery is exactly what you said it’s not? You always impress me. You think of everything. But a lot of people I know are just as smart as you and they overlook the simplest of things. You’re not like that, except maybe this one time. What if there is something? I’m sure you’ve thought of it by now. We’ve already compiled three drafts of our letter. You remember, I’m sure. It’s better that I write it though my handwriting is bad; it’s gotten worse even. I have the originals in a box somewhere. You tell me what to say. And we’ll leave it in a conspicuous spot, between us, beneath the bridge our entangled arms will make, making one last exploration of the other. Then, they’ll bury you; they’ll bury me. Our all-grown-up friends will come—remember them?—our families will come, and people you’d never expect will come. They’ll come for you, maybe less for me. We won’t be buried together like we planned; that seems unlikely. It won’t be up to us. Even if it’s in the letter we leave behind. But, I told you, I will find you. I will. I’ll break through the wooden coffin before the dirt has time to settle, I’ll dig frantically with god-awful strength like I’ve never known—you’ll see—and I’ll rip the lid off your box. You and me, grown together. That’s how it will happen, you and I together. All bone and soot. You tell me when you’re ready. I am ready. I called last week. You remember. I said, James Robinson. You seemed to remember then though you were busy. I lived beside you twelve years ago. We made a pact. You remember, I’m sure. My strength will astound you; you will gasp and hold your heart, that lid will splinter so suddenly, dirt-daylight pouring in.