Caelum (Chapter 1)

“Why do we call it our second life?” Maslow asked

“We call it our second life because,” Maslow’s father began, pausing to think for a moment. “Well, it didn’t come first. There was your first life - the life that you were born into and took your first breath in, when you were just a baby. But your second life is the life you live between the time you fall asleep at the end of the day, and the time when you wake up on the next.”

“But, its more than just one life, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” It was his father’s turn to be incredulous.

“Well, my first life is simple.”

“Oh is it now?” Maslow’s father scoffed, tousling his hair. “Well I’m glad you think its so easy.”

“No, not easy,” Maslow corrected, “Simple.”

Maslow’s father leaned back in the chair, trying to make peace with the fact that he would need to entertain this philosophical discussion. He spent a moment feigning deep thought, stroking his chin and flicking his eyes around the ceiling.

“Don’t patronize me,” Maslow objected. “What I mean is this. I mean that in this life, one thing always happens after another. I pour my milk in my cereal, I eat my cereal, I get dressed, I go to school. And the next day, I do it again. But I know that I did it yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.”

“Okay.” Maslow’s father was admittedly confused on where this talk was heading.

“But in my second life, it’s not like that. Time is broken. Every day happens in a different place at a different time. Every day has its own past and its own memories.”

Maslow watched as his father ran through the words over and over again in his head. This time he could tell that he was actually giving his words some serious thought. After some time of silence, he suddenly jumped out of his bed and tip toed to the bookshelf, careful to touch the cold floor as little as possible. He grabbed two books and slinked back to his bed.

“It’s like this,” he said, brandishing the open books in his father’s face. “In this life, one day is just a page in a story.” He grabbed one of the books and slid a single page between his fingertips and wiggled it back and forth. “But in my second life, a single day is the entire story.” He ran his thumb across the pages and watched them fly by, one after the other. “And then, the next day, is an entirely different story.” He grabbed the second book and flipped through its pages as well.

“I see what you’re saying now,” his father consented.  “But what was your point?”

“My point is that we shouldn’t call it our second life, because it’s not just one life. It’s our third life and our fourth life, and our one-hundredth life and our thousandth life!”

“Well, I guess it is a bit of a misnomer. But its name isn’t important. What’s important is that you learn from your second life, so that you don’t make the same mistakes in your first life.”

“I know, but…” Maslow began, but his father interrupted him.

“Our second life is what keeps everything in order in our first life. It’s the reason why we have such a good life here - no crime, no anger, no murder.”

The last word sank into Maslow’s stomach.

“Murder,” he repeated, his eyes dropping to the floor.

“Yes, taking someone else’ life.”

“I know what it means.”

“You don’t.” His father’s voice was cold and icy. “At least not yet.”