Post-Mortem Dance Floor

I don’t know what happens when we die. Likely, nothing. That’s cold though, and no consolation as the body count builds. More and more these days, I find too many conversations centered around the inevitability of death, around the privilege of growing older (a privilege denied to too many), and around the grief that collects like water behind a dam.

And I find myself needing to hold onto something else.

There was a 1990 movie called Longtime Companion, about a group of friends in the 80s and the onset of the AIDS epidemic. The beautiful ensemble cast gets whittled down as the virus ravages their friend group. The beaches of Fire Island feel very different as people keep disappearing. The film ends with them wondering what it will be like when they finally find a cure, and to the sound of “Post-Mortem Bar”, suddenly the beach fills up again, with all those they’ve lost, alive again, healthy again, young and beautiful and filled with joy again.

It’s an ending we have seen in other places. Think Rose dropping the heart of the ocean into the water before dying, and she’s back on board the Titanic, and they’re all there waiting for her, Jack at the clock, hand outstretched. Or Sam and Dean reuniting on the bridge at the end of Supernatural. These moments in media are powerful because they represent what we all need – reconnection.

It’s not enough for our lives to flash before our eyes before we go, whether that’s a slow-motion fall through memories or a rapid-fire sensory overload of every thing we’ve ever done. No, what we need is the sense that when it’s time to leave, we will find ourselves again with all of those we’ve lost.

I can see it now. It’s a crowded dance floor at Insert Gay Bar here. The song that is playing is That One, the one we all know, the one we can all sing every word to, the one that cannot play without a smile lighting up every face in the room. And every face is there. Every face we’ve ever known. Every face we’ve ever kissed. Every face we’ve ever loved.

There is no pain. No jealousy. No drama. The people that betrayed us? Those betrayals are healed. The people we betrayed? We are forgiven. The people we failed, the ones who failed us? Here, on this final dance floor, there is no past anchoring us in place. Here, we fly. Here, we are free. Here is only the love that lifted us out of the darkest times, the love we shouted from the rooftops, the love we whispered in the shadows, the love we never dared to speak. Here, it is all loud. Here, it is all felt.

We are washed away of all the grief. We are washed clean of all the anger. We are washed free of all the hurt. We are all golden. We are glowing. And we are all together again. There, in a frozen dance floor moment when the disco ball is spinning, the colors are vibrant, the song is on repeat and we will never tire of it.  The lights are bright and its bloody brilliant and beautiful and it’s ours. Together. Forever. Again.

Close your eyes. See it with me now. This future moment, that’s maybe not so futuristic after all. It could be tomorrow. We are all here on borrowed time. Things change in a flash. But see that flash! Hear the bass. You can’t not sway. And your hands are in the air, and you’re surrounded by the purest. Close your eyes.

See you on the dance floor.