shallow stream (1)

What is it like to look back from the other side of the river?

We cross this river only once in our lives. It marks the boundary between life and death. But every so often, a part of someone lingers, unable to make that crossing. As humans, we have mythologized the path to death. Great pharaohs built structures which would enable them to enter the afterlife with all their belongings. Their pyramids raised toward the sky. They told of the judgement which was passed on to those whose heart was heavier than the feather...fed to the crocodiles, abandoned in a labyrinth.

In other places, coffins were rigged into the sky. Wooden ones which were tucked tight into cliffs, overseen by foliage, facing the open.

In the ground, in a crypt or a grand mausoleum, either washed down river or hung up in the clouds, death is surrounded by mystery.

Why do humans do this? I pondered for a long time.

I came back, you see. It was so difficult for me to leave.

At the end, it was simply crossing that river, a shallow stream with flat, raised stones between the two shores. There was no Death to escort me. I held up a paper lantern, poised to stride across. But in the end, I turned back.

I still wanted to burn my diaries.