When Angels in the Outfield came out, in 1994, I hadn’t yet buried anyone I loved. I hadn’t been to a funeral, and I hadn’t yet been in a hospital room, been an audience to the sounds that stitch together, forming an orchestra, a soundtrack to an eventual exit.
Even with this in mind, I found myself obsessed with the afterlife. Not in a way that troubled anyone. I rarely spoke the obsession out loud. Even at ten years old, in the early summer days of 1994, I maybe had just enough self-awareness to know that the adults around me weren’t all that into my curiosity about what awaited us after death, and they likely didn’t have the answers, anyway.
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contributor
contributor
Hanif Abdurraqib is a writer from the east side of Columbus, Ohio.
