The Afterlife by James Tate

The Afterlife

 

A man fell out of the tree in our backyard. I ran over

to help him. “Would you like some tea?” I said. “I think

I broke my back,” he said. “Perhaps some ice cream would

be just the thing,” I said. “Lend me your hand,” he said.

I gave him my hand and tried to pull him up. When he was

upright, he said, “Where am I?” “You’re in my backyard,” I

said. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” he said.

“It’s just an ordinary yard, a small garden, a few flowers,”

I said. “Yes, it’s a sorry sight. How can you stand to live

here?” he said. “Oh, it’s my home,” I said. “Home? That’s

a curious word,” he said. “Where do you live?” I said. “Live?

Live? That’s a funny question,” he said. “I don’t live anywhere.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “I’m a dead man. I just float

around,” he said. “Well, I’ve never met a dead man. I’m

pleased to meet you,” I said. “I think you’re supposed to

scream or something,” he said. “Oh no, I’m really pleased,”

I said. “It’s really kind of you to drop by.” “I didn’t

drop by. It was the wind,” he said. “And then the wind stopped

and I fell into the tree.” “How lucky for me,” I said. “You’ll

be going with me, of course, when I leave. You’ll never be

coming back,” he said.