This story is a simple one,

not uncommon.

An old woman rests,

breaths from death,

in a hospital bed,

long white hair 

grown thin in recent years,

now lies limp,

fading into the 

hospital pillow.

Her skin nearly translucent,

and cool to the touch --

the unique mix of fading warmth

and encroaching cold.

What little family she has left

huddles around the bed

in awkward grieving silence.

Only tears, or sniffles

break the blanket that covers the room.

There is a son with a wife,

and a daughter.

Then a young woman,

quite clear to the old woman,

despite the murk that overtakes

everything else.

She asks,“Who are you? Why are you here?”

The young woman moves closer,

“You could say I’m a friend;

I’m here as support.”

The young woman takes her hand,

gently smoothing 

wrinkled skin.

She relaxes slightly.

“Why can I see you so clearly,

but my own family is a blur?”

There is so much sadness in her words,

the young woman knows she cannot lie, 

“You and I are close to death,

It has surrounded you all your life,

and will soon claim you.

I have been close enough to glimpse it several times.”

This intrigues the old woman.

She has lost nearly everyone,

lived a life clogged with misery,

feared death all her years,

now running out of 

time to hide from it.

“What was it like, in those glimpses of yours?”

the old woman can’t help but ask.

Is there really  

Heaven and Hell?
Would she be born again  

or would there be nothing,

cold and unfathomable darkness.

“Death is not an eternity of 

luxury in the clouds,

or punishment amongst flames,

or souls reborn into new bodies

to endure once more.

There is something greater than any of those.

All our favorite 

memories and moments

pool together where we can 

watch and remember, relive and imagine.”

The old woman relaxes 

again into the

hospital pillow,

her eyes slip shut as she 

listens to the young woman’s voice.

“I have been to death many times,

and recorded the people and memories

on my skin.”

The old woman opens her eyes again to see the

tattoos that curl around young arms.

“This is for the smell of 

homemade bread that 

Josefine made on Sundays

with her family.

This is for the soft glowing sunlight

as it streams through the 

window of Chris’s childhood bedroom.

And this small one here,

is for the flutter of

love, of

hope, of

butterflies in the stomachs of 

a loving couple when they see

each other on their wedding day.”

The old woman traces the strange

patterns and pictures

as the young woman explains

the story of the past --

a rainbow after a rainstorm,

wildflowers in the cracks of a driveway,

the taste of cotton candy 

dissolving into the tongue,

the stars one can only see in the 

country sky.

With each story, 

each feeling and memory,

the old woman feels her

muscles relaxing, while each 

breath grows more shallow than the last.

And finally she says,

“I don’t think I’m scared anymore.”

The statement unearths an offering of tears,

a muffled sob.

A machine emits a low, steady sound.

The young woman encloses the hand,

cold, but not yet stiff,

in her own warm one.

“Tell them I say hello, won’t you?”

She does not receive an answer;

She didn’t expect one.

She stands without another sound,

And makes her way to the

teary-eyed family.

Another state of consciousness, 

a woman, not old, nor young, embraced.

She opens her eyes to the

sun rising over the bay at her

grandmother’s cottage,

feels the soft, warm memories

encasing her like a cloud.

She faintly hears her mother’s voice,

calling her in for breakfast.

Oh, she hasn’t heard that

singing voice in decades.

She does not remember the

funeral, the tearful nights.

Only the stories before bedtime,

the feel of freshly washed sheets

as they make the bed together.

She stares at the dawn,

mesmerized,

just a moment longer,

then turns, and walks steadily up the

shallow slope towards

Home.