I'll follow you into the dark

"You're not going to get cancer, are you?" M. would ask me, often. "You better not." He'd warn me. He's serious about it.

I know, it may seems strange, or morbid, that we talk about things like this in a relationship when we're so young, the chance of one of us leaving the other, not out of choice, but out of inevitability. But it comes up, periodically, largely because of my current preoccupation with diseases. But that aside, it has been discussions about the end of life that has marked the deeper moments of our relationship. Our first serious conversation, the moment I knew that I'd found him, was about dying and the world beyond: no hell and no heaven, just love. Because, as M. puts it, there can be no real heaven, no real happiness, if heaven means being separated for eternity from those that you love who are, for some reason, not there at the end of days. Such a god would be a cruel God.

I have always assumed that he'd survive me. Something about him and his ability to always lead me through, to make things easier necessitates his perennial life. I think it's mainly me that fear the thought of loosing him, of having to bear it--it fuels my irrationality. He fears it too, but rather than assume my immortality, he's very practical. He'd rather I avoid cancer, or heart disease, or car accidents--anything to have control over that inevitability. It's sweet of him.

The song "I'll Follow You Into the Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie (thanks Kate) reminds me of our conversations. It is sentimental, at times too innocent and unsure of its own implications (how does one 'be close behind' a partner who's recently died to be hand in hand at the pearly gates, unless it's a decidedly mutual embarkation?). But I still like it, and I can only hope that, as the singer alleges, M. and I too will get to see everything there is to see. And maybe it's not necessarily death, but any great unknown can lie ahead in the dark. Regardless, it's nothing to cry about. I'll follow him into the dark.