Vision of Deborah

I arrange my body into a comfortable position for mediation. As soon as my eyelids close, I see a vision. My friend Deborah, newly deceased, lifts my slack body, one hand under each armpit struggling to hoist me upright. I stand, albeit wobbly. She kneels at my feet, head down, like a child examining a tiny ladybug. She brushes off a layer of powdery grey dust, feet, torso, shoulders, back. She’s done, steps back, we stare into each other’s eyes. Time to live. The clamp that's been holding my chest hostage, releases. So heavy is the grieving heart.