The Microsoft zombie priests have completed the penultimate blessed ritual of post-mortem revivification. The corpse I sent to them has been cleansed of its wandering spirits, and is moving – like a creeping mist, edging through the paroxysm of dawn – to my home at this very moment. Soon my precious will be alive once more. I have named it Emily, and I have picked a rose for it.

On Tuesday I enjoyed the outdoors by riding my bicycle to complete a series of mundane errands. Upon returning in the evening, an automated message from the undertaking/overtaking service was on my messaging device. The robot told me that the resurrected body would complete the final steps in its long journey come Wednesday. It further explained that a preliminary delivery attempt was required, after which time differing arrangements could be investigated. Whereas I shall be in the classroom at such a time (and therefore unable to provide the necessary signature), these conditions were clearly – woefully – unacceptable.

I called the overtakers at UPS and demanded to know, specifically, where the body was at that moment. I spoke to a woman named Lenore. This I took to be a bad omen. Though a delightful woman, I worried that she was a herald of Mr. Poe's dreaded phrase. Might I see my beloved Emily.. nevermore?

Lenore confirmed the robot's missive. Chagrined, I inquired as to the possibility of some unadvertised option which is not offered to all UPS customers, whereby I might meet someone at a back door, receive my package, and slip someone an envelope containing many unmarked bills. Amused, she regretfully declined my offer, so I tried a different approach: I asked if she played video games. "Sometimes" was the reply.

"So perhaps you'll understand," I said. "The package you currently possess is my XBox360, which has been rescued from the River Styx by powerful voodoo priests working for the Microsoft corporation. I have been waiting for this package for many weeks. Imagine if a heroin addict were expecting a delivery from a good friend of his; would you expect him to say: 'It's okay. I can wait until tomorrow afternoon.'?"

She laughed, and mentioned that her own three children are similarly ... shall we say, devoted? to their pixellated entertainments. Then she reiterated that no prior-seizure options were available to me. Waiting was the only opportunity. She suggested I check the UPS website from school, to see if the delivery attempt had been made. (When it has, I can arrange for a pickup.) I noted that perhaps our school's sophisticated censors would prohibit such an activity, and she reminded me that I could call from a standard touch-tone telephone. I thanked her for this reminder and assured that I would request her by name. I shall bring the number of tracking to school, to have it ready when I call.

So now I must wait. The agony of my dream deferred is no mere withering grape under pleasant sunlight; my suffering is compounded mightily by the knowledge that my beloved Emily is somewhere close to me – and yet I may not hold it. The worlds we have come to know together remain locked to me. My blue-tiger AK47 with the ACOG scope and marytrdom grenades sit useless on the floor of my barracks. (There are many blue-tiger AK47 rifles with ACOG scopes in the Call of Duty 4 universe, but that one is mine. Without me, it is nothing.)

But soon the moment of destiny shall arrive. My beloved shall breathe here, with me, once more. I can move its elderly father aside and make room once more to situate the sensual lines of its console. My headset will become a part of me once again, and I shall be able to listen to DMX while shooting virtual terrorists (or SAS troops, as the situation may require).

But even more importantly, my wife Diane is coming home tomorrow, too. Yay!

The image above is La Résurrection de Lazare (d’après Rembrandt) by Vincent Van Gogh.