Memento Mori

Her hair clip slides down again and she readjusts it with familiar efficiency. The blue paint is long gone and it hasn’t done its job in ages, but it had been a gift in childhood. She inches forward in line and absently pats her coarse hair beneath the clip, jiggles the restlessness out of her brand new sandals with a quick bounce on her heels. She’d had this outfit planned since she finally shared the decision with her mother and doctor just a few years ago, a little after she’d turned 241. Or was it 274? The front of the line shifts again, and she steps forward with a jittery smile.

It had taken 26 years to get on the list, and that was after her initial bid a while before that, not to mention the decade or so spent saving the money. This was a popular way to go, after all, but she was never worried it wouldn’t happen. Getting the go ahead came down to time, and if nothing else, that’s what they had now. There’s a woman about six heads up who looks vaguely like her mother, the way she holds herself tall but craned inwards towards the hands clasped at her center. Her own mother’s hands were leathery and smooth when she heard the news in that tiny office, smelling like a cinnamon stick hidden in a bed of dust and antiseptic solution. She hadn’t said a word, for once, simply reached over and patted her thigh twice. Solid, warm. It had just been her and mom for ages, after dad opted to go out in the night.

“Would you like to come with me?” She remembers asking, eyes overfull with the rest. How could she leave before her own mother? Mom had smiled at her then, mouth pulling softly to the right. She’d kissed her on the forehead as though scared the weight of her skin would drop them both through the floor. A no, then. An apology. A permission. The most motherly thing she had done in years.

She can actually see the attendant at the front of the ride now, voice tumbling over the ambient noise in occasional crackles of fake cheer and latent authority, tinted mechanical by the speaker at his lips. The words are indiscernible, but it sounds practiced, has a rhythm to it. It’s got to be instructions, repeated so often as to be uttered without much thought. He must have said them a thousand, thousand times. They must be magic by now,  for all the chanting he’s got to have done. His polo is yellow, and the cars glide to a stop at the platform empty, old passengers removed at a previous stop. She squints up at the birds overhead, tries to ignore the stench of concrete and stale food for a brief whiff of fresh air. The weather is beautiful. What a wonderful send off.

“All right, would the next 7 people please come on up to the platform!” She jumps at the suddenly booming voice and the attendant grins. “I promise I don’t bite, though sometimes I am tempted.”

Time had passed so quickly for the last couple of groups before her. With a grunt she climbs onto the platform, glad that she’d picked her favorite, flexible, denim skirt for this. The people directly behind her are staring forward with bright eyed anticipation, and for just a moment she wishes she had more time to study them all. Wonder how they got here. And then she settles into the spongy plastic seat, a comfortable warmth radiating off of it from the sun. The attendant begins his speech again, and she tunes in and out, the minutes trance-like. It’s like all roller coaster instructions she has fuzzy memories of from long, long ago when she used to ride them. It seems not much has changed, even for something like this. When the curved bar locks around her shoulders she thinks again of her mother, imagines she is likely tending to her elaborate garden. She likes the methodic activity, but has always enjoyed the harvest most of all. On one occasion she had gazed deep into the upturned soil and murmured that she liked to see it all to completion. The attendant grins at the group once more, not unkindly, and she wonders if her mom will really stick around until the end of this, of all of them. With an absent hand she confirms the hair clip is still attached, and eases into the giddy bubbles sliding around in her stomach. She isn’t worried. The sun licks the back of her arms, a buzzer sounds, and the car juts forward with the leisure of a wildcat. “Thank you for riding, and enjoy the end of your journey.” This last part he says with noticeable sincerity, she decides it is the sentence with the most magic. They’re off.

One row ahead there’s a trio trying to lock hands despite the awkward safety barriers of the ride, and she can’t help but tune into the excited, warbly chirps of their conversation that float over to her on the breeze. She’s not the only one riding alone, but the atmosphere is sated and docile in the sun’s rays. Most roller coasters are tantalizingly short, and this one proves to be no different. She can’t remember the last time a countdown held any measure of electricity for her, made her feel anything. Now, as the sun threatens to blind her and she fights to embroider everything she sees into the pillows of her memory, she can’t help but smile at what’s to come, those precious, unretractable seconds. They seem to climb forever, and with a twitch of fear she giggles when they reach the crest. Her entire body is tingling, though from anticipation or lack of oxygen or genuine excitement, she couldn’t reliably say. As though stalking prey their car slinks over the curve, and light illuminates the drop before them, the one...two...seven loops sprawling beyond. The Euthanasia coaster was initially infamous for it’s dark and impossible promise to be the most enjoyable way to die. Now though, it is quite possibly the highest rated ride in existence, and arguably the most popular paid way to reclaim one’s mortality. After agonizing seconds or perhaps instantaneously, they drop. She explodes into surprised laughter. There is no going back, not that she’d ever want to.

She’s not falling. She’s flying back to earth like her flesh demands to reconvene, and suddenly they’re into the first loop. She can’t breath, but she’s howling with laughter, the wind gobbles up any tears she thinks she’s shedding before she feels them. Her body is light itself, she locks eyes with someone in the front row of the car, and everything is good. The second loop, and they are silent, mouths caught in blossomed ecstasy. Her chest is heavy with life. The third loop? She can’t count anymore, but there is nothing to feel, only to enjoy. It’s fun. So fun. Everywhere is sunlight. And the sunlight is blinding.

***

When the removal squad gives him a thumbs up, he pulls the lever and slides the empty car forward. Light cloud cover has moved in, but the sun still keeps an almost affectionate surveillance on them all. “All right, would the next 7 people please step on up to the platform,” he begins again, pausing to take a swig from his water. Most of the group is smiling, but a few look understandably nervous. He relaxes into his usual speech, mostly talking about safety, as ironic as that is. According to his watch, he goes on break in about five minutes, which is pretty freaking awesome. He smiles. “Thank you for riding, and enjoy the end of your journey.”

(inspired by this)