She died at home two days later. Her mother and father and brothers were with her.

Hannah Madison, who was not present, would weep for days.

Paul Hoffman insisted, his wife silent and unsteady and distraught, that his daughter be buried sans casket, deep in the ground in the manner she’d asked for. It took effort to find a cemetery that would allow that, and that cemetery was some distance from the family home. There was some discussion about that decision. It was a mournful discussion and a vote was never taken and agreement was reached silently.

The funeral was quiet. Vanessa had friends there and some traveled to the graveyard and at that cemetery gathering, before and after, it was grim and depressing. Ethan, the younger brother, let tears roll down his face undisturbed and fought to keep some form of a smile on his face, and mostly succeeded.

Vanessa Hoffman had taken part in the least understood and most sacred of human ceremonies … departure. As she’d requested, she was part of the earth. That is where she’d been directed to be.

Those directions hadn’t mentioned transcendence, but now she was in the process of transcending. It helped that she’d been prepared. It helped that she’d had the conversations she’d had. During transcendence, was she aware of the benefits of all that preparation? No. How could that be? She was past the directives and beyond conversing; she was crossing over, transitioning, surpassing and achieving and escaping and moving to a place where words had no power.

Taylor Hoffman wondered, for years, if the end that Vanessa imagined, that swirling, spinning fading away, had been precognition on her part. Was it like that? Ethan was sure he would see his sister again and said that out loud when her name was mentioned and was comfortably unsure about how and where. Hannah Madison would forever picture her little sister growing up, getting older and getting old, hair greying, wrinkles appearing around her eyes, on her neck, on her hands. They would be close.

Paul and Lauren Hoffman talked about their daughter, talked to their daughter, for years. Paul liked to picture his daughter, healthy, a full head of hair, eyes bright, holding her breath and swimming through soil, rising to the surface occasionally for a quick gulp of air, and then diving back down, kicking hard. Lauren did not approve of her husband’s imaginings and would not talk about it. Instead, she would converse with her daughter and on some occasions almost hear her voice. “Vanessa, your end of the conversation is slipping,” she’d say. “Talk louder. My hearing’s not what it once was.”

About the Author:

Victor Kreuiter’s stories have appeared in EQMM, Halfway Down The Stairs, Bewildering Stories, Tough, Frontier Tales, Del Sol SFF Review, Literally Stories, and other online and print publications.