Adam’s Last Gift
Adam was alive the day I posted this photo on Facebook. He would be gone less than three weeks later. Adam had wrapped his Christmas gift for Greg and me in beautifully embossed black and white paper and wrapped himself to match. I had never seen Adam so excited about a gift. “You’ll never guess what it is!” Adam exclaimed as he set the gift before me on the coffee table and sat down next to me on the floor. “Why wouldn’t I guess it,” I asked, wondering what could possibly be in that box.
“Because you just can’t give it to somebody.” He replied.
“What did you get me, Adam? The Universe?”
Adam hopped up off the floor, grabbed the gift off the coffee table, dropped it in my lap, and yelled, “Tear that motherfucker open and read it!” He was absolutely electric with anticipation as I did exactly as instructed. There on the side of the package in quotes were the words, “THE UNIVERSE IN A BOX.” Thrilled my intuition was so on point Adam was hopping around the room like a leprechaun. Little did I know how much I was going to need it.
Adam wrote about an NDE in 2006 during which he experienced the “peace and beauty of crossing over to the Other Side.” I wish he’d written more. He had to have seen his impending death, the one that would occur several years later because he not only knew he’d be leaving he knew how. He said as much the day he stood on the black and white tiles in my kitchen like a multi-dimensional chess piece, he announced, “One of these days I’m going to fly away in the Delta.” I was gobsmacked! How do you respond to a statement like that?
A few days after Adam’s accident, I found the following poem at his apartment, penciled in Adam’s fat block print:
Shortly after 2:00 am on Sunday, January 23, 2011, Adam flew away. He was driving a Chevy Suburban on a levee road on a night so foggy he couldn’t see his hand before his face. Adam knew every bend and curve in the road he drove back and forth to work. Instead of pulling over to safety, he unfastened his seat belt, rolled down the driver’s side window, and leaned out to see where he was. When his right front wheel hit a pile of cement blocks separating the levee road from the murky waters of the Delta, the Suburban flipped end-over-end, coming to rest upside down in the center of the road where it was discovered after 9:00 am the next morning. Adam’s body lie supine forty some odd feet away, alive but hypothermic. Adam spent the next few days while he was on life support, letting me know that he is still here. Not “here” as I use to define it, but “here,” nonetheless.
My “here” in the third dimension is in spacetime where I can move about, space stands still, and time is a construct created by humans. Adam’s “here” is in time-space where he can move about, everything is space, and there is no such thing as time.
Me: Adam, where are you?
Adam: I’m here.
Me: Where is “here?”
Adam: Right here. Right now. I’m everywhere all at once. All dimensions exist all at once.
Me: How can that be?
Adam: Imagine each dimension is a piece of paper. Now stack them up and compress them into the same space.
Me: So, in my “here” in spacetime, you were Adam, and in your “here” in time-space you’re Atom?
: Exactly! You have mass; therefore, you are limited in terms of your ability to move about. I’m amorphous so I have no such limitations.
Me: It makes perfect sense when you explain it that way.
Adam: Everything is everywhere all at once. Each dimension exists at a different frequency. Just like a radio station you only experience the frequency you’re rockin!
Me: Thank you, Adam! I absolutely treasure these nuggets of wisdom that comprise Adam’s Gift.
Adam: Hey, Mom? Riddle me this: What’s another word for “gift?”
Me: Mmmm… present?
Adam: What’s another word for present?
Me: Here?
: That’s right! Adam’s here and don’t you forget it!
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