Afterlife

I sit on the porch swing wrapped in the warmth of my mama’s quilt, handed down through three generations of Buchanan women. The sun shines warm on my face, a crisp autumn day — my favorite.

Feet softly pushing off the worn floorboards, I swing gently back and forth, my coffee cup warming my hands.

Some people believe, wholeheartedly, that upon death, we are transported to Paradise — or burned in a lake of fire. Others believe we just cease to exist. Many people believe we come back… that we’re reincarnated.

And let’s not forget Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory.

I ponder the possibilities.

Those who believe tell you they have faith.

I have faith; faith that there is no way we can know with certainty what happens when we die.

I like to think that somewhere out there our spirit rejoins the spirits of those we loved. I have a vision of my departed loved ones as ephemeral twists of colored smoke coming together, moving apart, coming back together… fluid, free, loved.

The doctor’s appointment was interminable: poking, prodding, scanning, and endless vials of blood. The diagnosis wasn’t a surprise. The prognosis was welcome.

I have missed you for so long now.

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This drabble was originally published on Medium. https://medium.com/@nancywrites