I walk into the gymnasium of the preschool where I teach. It is packed to the brim with people of all races, colors, ages, creeds. Everyone is picnicking happily, eating their lunches from paper plates, drinking lemonade and iced tea. There is an air of contentment and relaxed anticipation. I sit down with my plate next to a coworker and we chat while we eat. We are sitting on the aisle near the front of the gym next to a long, empty table.
In the center of the room, a young man sits among his family, his preacher next to him. He eats slowly, keeping his eyes to his plate. After a few minutes, the preacher, a large man wearing a purple mock turtleneck, stands up and takes the young man to the front of the gym. The preacher starts to speak, and I don't really pay attention. But I hear him say that it is time to begin. The room goes quiet, and the lights go off leaving us in total darkness. There is absolutely no noise and within a few seconds the lights come back up.
The young man is in a coffin standing against a wall with a small bleeding hole in his head, like he had been shot. The people that fill the gymnasium quietly file forward to pay their final respects and the preacher talks about how he felt no pain. He sets a basket on the empty table near me and says that if anyone would like to leave notes for him to take with him to the afterlife, the basket is waiting. But don't bother to leave money, because it will be stolen.
These are the things that happen to me during sleep after I watch documentaries.
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