Raise It Up

At the last toast at the end of the world my father will be at the head of the table, raising his glass to humanity. "To you," he might say. Or, "To us." Or, "To God."

While buildings are crumbling and the land is sinking into the sea and the trees are on fire, I'll have my eyes on my father. "Let us be thankful for what we have been given," he will say.

It will be at this point that I'll sniff my drink to see if the bartender went easy on the gin, like my mother said I should. It will be strong. "Thank God," my father will say, his timing impeccable, "for the lives we have had."

I will try to pull the lime out to suck on it, because that doesn't count as drinking before the toast is over. My finger chasing the green slice around the ice cubes in my glass will remind me of the Titanic and how that must have felt like the end of the world to those poor bastards. "Our time is short," my father will continue. "Without hope for a future, let us find peace in our end."

At this point the roof will be swept off the house and the dry grass in the front lawn will catch fire. Like I said, impeccable timing. "Let us find comfort that humankind has lasted as long as we have without destroying ourselves." The ice in my glass will be melting at this point, and my sister will suddenly disintegrate into ash in the chair next to me.

I will steal her drink and pour it into my own. No need to be wasteful here at the end of time.

Finally, my father will raise his glass high above his head. "To life everlasting in the great world to come," he will shout over the hurricane-force wind that will blow fire through the house and swirl up into the darkened sky.

I will raise my glass and take the double-drink down in one big swallow. I will shut my eyes, and feel the flames on my cheeks and the fire of the gin in my throat.