Downy blankets of white softly settle, Nature gratefully submitting to slumber as the Earth bids a seasonal adieu. Inside, my body craving hibernation, curls into
We wait at the station, Mother and I, one final stop for her – painless she prays; I linger at bedside – prolonged goodbye –
Imperceptibly they disappear no ghostly trace I am a doorway – open, transparent, absorbing teleporting extinguishing souls, spirited away Eden-bound no return.
“What happens after death?” she asked one Sunday, her long, thin body, stretched weakly across the settee, her cousin, balancing his dinner plate at her feet. Sundays they
I picture it: a convention of like minds, congregating, sharing, aspiring to betterment. A conference of healing, for the newly deceased – like limbo, only
Is death a gentle reprieve, a final release of suffering a promised resting place? Or is it contemplation coloured by memories demanding retribution? Will death