INVISIBLE(Elaine Faber) I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, watching the shoppers pass by. Ladies with shopping bags, young women pushing strollers, teenagers in ominous black clothing running from shop to shop, peering through the glass, more to see who might be in the shop than to admire the mannequins in the window.

They all have somewhere to go, someone to meet or something to buy. No one looks at me. I might as well be invisible. Maybe I am invisible. I have no one to meet, nowhere to go and no objective in mind except to sit on this cement bench and wonder.

How could this happen? In another life, I had people to see and things to do and more often than not, an objective in mind for the day. But, I have to remind myself. That was then and this is now.

In another life, I breathed and ate and slept and played and did all sorts of things I don’t do now. Because, I’m dead.

There, I’ve said it. I’m dead. Dead is the absence of life, meaningless, empty, lonely, not at all like they promised. Streets of gold, traveling through the universe on angel’s wings, glorying in the presence of God. Music, art, nature, love, all rolled into a package tied with a ribbon on top and left on your doorstep when you die. Just pull off the ribbon, open the package and there you are…Heaven.

Nope, not like that at all. No one ever said dead would be just floating around a shopping mall or through your house, walking past old friends and family, alone and invisible.
I could be sitting on the couch beside my daughter and she might speak to me and I’d answer, well, maybe I’d answer, maybe I’d just sit there. Either way, she’d look right through me and I’d know, I’m invisible.

A security guard is coming down the sidewalk. If I spoke to him, would he see me? I doubt it. I spoke to a teenager a few minutes ago and he kept on walking. Didn’t even turn his head my direction. But then, why should he? He has his own life. Probably has a girlfriend, maybe a job at McDonald’s, and for sure, a cell phone. He had it stuck to his ear. Literally, stuck to his ear, sort of like a hearing aid…talking to someone. Or maybe not. Maybe, talking to himself.

I could understand if he was talking to himself. I do that a lot lately, because if I do speak to someone, no one hears a word I say. But why should they? I’m dead.

I should go. This bench is hard and cold. I should take the bus and go back home. It’s nearly 5:00. The bus will be crowded and I need to find a seat near the back. Of course, I’ll sit alone. No one will sit beside me or talk to me…

I stand and my bones ache. I take a step and realize, my feet hurt, too. I walked too far this morning after I got off the bus. Walked all the way into the mall, past Macy’s and the shoe store where I bought a pair of shoes once. Good shoes, too. On sale even. Bought them back some years ago when I still went to church and volunteered at the Discovery Shop and before my wife…died.

I don’t know what happened to those shoes. Maybe in the back of the closest with my golf clubs and fishing poles.

My wife and I used to do that…golf and fish. Did some traveling, too. But that was before …before my world became without hope, without meaning. Back before I sold my motor home and turned my back on everything and everyone. Before my friends stopped calling and I stopped going to church. Before I stopped volunteering. Before I chose to stop living….

“What? What did you say?” Is that man talking to me?

“I said, do you play chess? There’s a chessboard over there next to those benches. Would you like to come over and play a game?” The man is elderly, gray hair, mustache.

“I…I…haven’t played for years. Are you sure you’re talking to me?”

“Said so, didn’t I. But, if you’d rather not, I could ask someone else.”

“No. No.… Thanks. I mean, yeah, I’d love to play.”

“Name’s Walter. What’s yours?”

He’s reaching for my hand. My fingers tingle at his touch. We walk to the chess table. My feet don’t hurt at all, now that we’re seated. “Mine’s Derwin. Nice to meet you.”

There’s a crushing feeling in my chest, almost painful, and wonderful, all at the same time. I guess I was wrong. I’m not invisible. Maybe I’m not dead. Maybe I just felt dead because I didn’t have anything to live for. Maybe I didn’t even want to live.

“You come here often, Derwin? My friend and I used to come every afternoon, but he’s moved to a nursing home across town. Wanna’ meet me here tomorrow? Maybe we could have a bite to eat over at Denny’s after a couple games. What do ya say?”

“That sounds nice. I’d like that.”

I can feel the muscles in my jaw strain. It’s the smile, I think. I haven’t smiled for a long time.

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