Peter never believed in life after death.
Then the plane crash changed everything.
Peter never believed in the Green Man. He told himself the story was just his mother’s way of making sense of tragedy. An educated man with little faith in anything, Peter had no patience for supposed premonitions. That day—the day of the flight—was different. With his mother’s latest warning ringing in his ears, the plane began to falter. Peter’s world was about to change.
Strangely, as I think back, the pen tight in my hand, the last remnants of steam drifting from the top of my quickly cooling coffee, it is the ending I remember clearest. Blue is the color I see, not green. It is the flashing blue lights on top of the police car that mesmerize me. The tangle of pain and confusion I feel is like nothing I have ever previously experienced, and I feel hopelessly alone. In that frozen moment in time, I am lost.
A policeman approaches me, grim faced. His jacket collar is pulled up as high as it will go to keep the rain out. I stand motionless in front of him, my saturated T-shirt clinging to my flesh.
“Mr. Jones, can I ask you a couple of questions?” he says dourly.
I stare through him with so many unanswered questions of my own. The stretcher passes me and I cannot bear to look at it. For the first time in my life I am certain that my mother’s premonition was true.
I believe in the Green Man.