Four hundred and eighty-nine hours, fifty-one minutes since my mother’s heart stopped and her life was over. Four hundred and eighty-nine hours, fifty-one minutes since the actuality of my family turned into a fiction. The condolences dispensed, the memorials complete and now today the dead flowers finally disposed of. What I am left with a museum to live within. A dead zone that awaits the return of those who had devised it but it will never be able to entertain the same. They are gone, both of them. Their bodies consumed by fire, their cold ashes entombed within a vault. The only remnant speaking to their existences being this space.
I have to rub my eyes and ask myself, “Do I live in a dream?” “Did they ever exist?”
I see the evidence of clothes and curios and keepsakes scattered about file cabinets of records and artworks and mementos of happier times past. My effigy in some of them along with my two ghostly forebears. Everything seems simultaneously like yesterday poised in time segments of eons. I cannot help but keep from expecting them to return as if from some vacation trip and in a spontaneous inner dialogue ask myself, “Are they really both gone?” Who invented this game? I have to wonder if some perverse universal mechanism holds mankind caught in a larger parlor game? One where consciousness or it’s lack is determined by blindfolds applied in the darkness of spiritual awareness. Can the accumulation of so much life simply disappear into nothing?
Physical death seems naught but an arbor within which to retreat when there is the possibility afford of no more. A choice perhaps for some or a consequence of happenstance for others. To go on without connection is to invite the vacuum of inner space to be crushed unhesitatingly by the material world. What did those passengers found inadvertently locked tight within the inner recesses of an ill famed ship now presently traveling to the bottom of the ocean contemplate as streams of sea water incrementally found their way into their sealed cabins from popping bolt holes? I look about me at this hoard of now bygone artifacts and feel a sense of inner terror. The ghosts from dreams bespeaking childhood fears of the loss of one’s parents now settles in their place. I call and call out within my heart for them to respond, but only uninterrupted silence is my answer. It is “I’ who tumble into the depths. This lasting darkness brought forth into the plain day of light.