I’ve never believed in any one thing or another about death. Assertions that death is a journey, or a better place, or a place at all – haven’t been particularly persuasive to me. Maybe it is mawkish to think these things. I can’t tell if I have some additional insight now. Or is it just the surfeit of bad nights where i don’t sleep because I can’t breath properly, or my hands are in pain. or my hips and knees are locked in their tortuous new normal.
I have been thinking about this off and on over the last weeks. The rituals in some cultures where the buried are sent with small gifts. Things they will need for a journey somewhere. Packets of food. Tokens of loved ones. Defenses to meet dangers. Writing implements. Gold for love, or status, or something arcane that can’t be read across time zones. I told G that I want to be dressed in something I like. Something of the me that has been driven out, my distant memory. My clothes in the closet, waiting for a return. I would like a notebook and a pen. Tokens from loved ones. Some food. Something to keep warm. Something sensible to walk on, but still beautiful. Something with s heel, so the line is right. Someday, I would like Lola with me. I wish i could have her name tag so she can find me. I am afraid of being alone, where no one can. All of my other bad dreams are coming to pass. I think this one will too. Unless something is done. I don’t know why I believe this. Or why there is some weird comfort in it. But let me take some things that mean something with me. Beautiful things that help you go on. The tokens that promise reunifications, or the means to sing or say, without choking or gasping for breath. Some reminder of what I did. When I was here.