Remembering My Death

Early morning, rain lashing at the window. A body sleeping on the bed. A dream entered that body. An old woman in the dream. Not rude. Not brusque. Not passive aggressive. She made coffee, letting me talk and hover in her kitchen. “I know why your heart softens when it rains like this,” she said.

I packed my bags and left for the airport. But at the last minute I changed my mind and came back.

Now I am standing in front of the locked door. Where is she? I see the keys on the nail next to the door, and a note. I am anxious if they let me stay. Can a guest be a resident?

I step in and the scene changed. Now I see my sisters, my brothers, my family, around me. Not noticing me. I am anxious. Feeling homeless, I see rude, brusque, passive and aggressive, and no one making any coffee. The old woman left the dream. The dream left the body. Rain was no longer lashing at the window. It is way past morning.

Featured image: By the Deathbed (Fever), by Edvard Munch, 1893.

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