Vachon Imagined

He spoke in a simple language.
No books were needed.

He whispered one sentence, clear and concise:

Show me you’re alive.

And so she ran to her closet. the only place she kept her most prized possessions, and began pulling them out.

“See!”

Like a child’s thunderous jubilee on the day of show-and-tell, she presented her evidence with the fierce pride of someone proving her own worth.

“See this! This means I’m alive.”

The voice, now again in its clarity, answered:

“But the possibility of that existed before you.”

She bowed her head, almost mysteriously, as though being introduced to something she had somehow always known.

“I know,” she said.

And then she ran back to the closet.

Like a horse circling the same field.

“See!”

Her chest puffed out.

“Look at my biology. Look at this body. Look at what I am.”

The voice remained unimpressed.

No smile.

No yes, you’re right.

Just a fixed, clean face that offered no expression at all.

Once more.

Then twice more.

She kept returning with proof, declaring her life, presenting herself as evidence of herself.

But still, the voice remained unimpressed.

And finally she was tired.

Tired of proving her existence.

Tired of holding up pieces of herself and asking them to testify on her behalf.

So she knelt before the voice.

And suddenly, it began to pull her in.

Her body weakened.

Her tears became oceans.

And like a gravitational force she could no longer resist, the voice began taking her over.

This thing that had asked one simple question.

She realized then that she could never prove the answer.

Not really.

Not ever.

“I give up,” she whispered.

And the voice, no longer her voice, but His voice, that voice, said:

“Good.”

A silence.

Then:

“Now we begin.”

And the voice drew her closer.

“You and I are one.”

A pause.

“Let’s try this again.”