Reboot.

Apparently, the God I don’t believe in wants me to write.

“I do,” She says.

“I’m writing,” I say.

“Good,” She says. “And I want you to finish writing and post it.”

“That’s harder,” I say.

“I know,” God says. “I’ve got your back.”

January 27, 2024

I woke up next to my wife.

She wasn’t breathing.

Her body was cold.

She was dead.

This is generally not good.

But in this case, it was not so bad.

“What the fuck?” Asked an imaginary reader.

“Be patient,” God said patiently.

She’d been diagnosed with “cognitive impairment of the Alzheimer’s type.” And with “probably Alzheimer’s Disease.” But not “Alzheimer’s disease.”

“Shit!” said an imaginary reader. “That sucks.”

Yeah.

They told us they could have done some more tests and gone from “probably” to “very probably,” or maybe even “very very probably” or “almost certainly with high confidence very likely probably,” but fuck more tests.

It doesn’t matter what you call it. It is what it is.

She talked, smiled, laughed, and loved ice cream like always. We held hands and hugged each other and kissed each other goodnight. But she didn’t know and couldn’t remember what day it was, or even what year. She knew who I was, except for that one time when she thought I was her Dad.

She always deserved a good Dad, and now she had one.

But shit.

“I get why you said ‘not so bad,’” an imaginative imaginary reader said. “Alzheimer’s sucks.”

“So does ‘probably Alzheimer’s,’” said another imaginary reader, who had no idea how to use quotation marks and apostrophes in this case.

“Quote marks and apostrophe’s suck,” said another imaginary reader, who had their own problems with apostrophes.

“Well, it’s good you’re writing about it,” said another imaginary reader. “Isn’t it?”

“I have no idea,” I said. Then I thought about it. There were so many things about my life after January 27 that were confusing, but it wasn’t true that I had no idea. I corrected my statement. “I have many ideas, and some of them contradict other ideas,” I said. “I’m writing about it. I’m not making judgments.”

“Judgement is mine,” God said, “and I’m reserving judgment.”

God reserves judgment even if you’re a complete asshole.

“It is what it is,” God has said, “and judging doesn’t make it any different.”

I’m here. It’s now. I can answer questions about the person I seem to be and about “the past.” But the past is past, and the future has not yet come. Things happen.

It was not so bad that Bobbi was dead because “probably Alzheimer’s” is highly correlated with “Things Will Get Worse.”

I stopped writing. “How do I go on,” I asked the God I don’t believe in.

“How do you go on with life? Or how do you go on with this post?” God asked.

It was a rhetorical question because, of course, She knew the answer.

“I meant both,” I said, “but of course, you knew that.”

“Of course, I knew you meant both,” God said. “And here’s your answer: You go on with life by finishing and publishing this post. And you go on with this post by writing what you are inspired to write.”

“I think I’m done writing,” I said.

“You’re not,” God said. “Trust me, I know.”

I trusted God. Even though I did not believe in Her, I trusted Her.

“She’s with You,” I said. “Isn’t she?” By “she,” I meant Bobbi.

“Yes,” God said simply. “She’s with me. She’s always been with Me. You’re with Me. You’ve always been with Me. Sometimes you know it, and sometimes you don’t. But what you know doesn’t change what is. You’re always with Me. So are all your readers.”

“I’m an atheist,” said an imaginary reader. “You don’t exist, and I’m not with you.”

“That’s what you believe, but what you believe does not change what is,” God says.

“I’m with you,” Bobbi says.

“With me, or God, or the imaginary readers?” I ask her.

‘Yes,” Bobbi says. “The answer is always Yes.”

“Now I’m done writing,” I said.

“Yes,” Bobbi says. “The answer is always Yes.”