The Afterlife

snowblossomshit

On Monty’s early evening walk. I’m in between audiobooks, so let Apple Music choose a playlist. Mainly terrible emo stuff from the 90s. Then, Birthday, by the Sugarcubes. I saw them at Manchester Uni in 86? 87? Always fond of this song. The vocals, but also that melodic bass. And the almost discordant drones in the background.

Stood still for a few seconds, listening.

And then it started to snow.

Except, no, of course, just blossom falling. I put my hands out, but the flakes, I mean petals, missed my fingers. And I looked around for the tree (cherry? blackthorn? apple?), but there were only towering London planes, and nothing that could bring forth this snowy blossom. It must have been caught in some breeze, imperceptible to human senses. Carried over the gardens, the walls. But June? Is there blossom still in June?

And it was then that I realised that I was dead.

The music and the impossible blossom. A stroke or heart attack. Is there blossom in the afterlife? Do the Sugarcubes play there?

And, er, does Monty need me to unfurl a poo bag, stoop and scoop?

So, not dead.

But the blossom… It was gone again. As if it never existed.