A MATTER OF LIFE AND ... 
 

It was ... what? ... congenital heart disease, both doctors had concluded. Time remaining was ... uncertain. That was their way of expressing finitude, the inevitable.

What a laugh, what a wonderful, terrible irony. She was a psychic. And did not foretell her own impending demise. Maybe there was some cosmic reason for this.

For years, for decades, and, to be honest, for much income, she had advised countless others all about life, for all her life, about theirs.

And now she cannot foresee what her own future holds.

She looks ahead and sees only blankless.

Snuff the candle, cradle the crystal, pocket the tarot cards.

She sits alone in the dim room, the neon sign "Palms Read" outside filling the room with a dim red, tardily blinking like a quondam message, like a slowing strobe, like a heartbeat reaching its end.

The walls converge, the lights converge, the insight ... focused ... her life's path suddenly a point, so sharp and clear.

And a link, a thread to ... where she was.

The question! It is not the fate of life, the future, the doubt if life continues after this one.

The question! It is not whether this is the ultimate termination.

The question is not whether this, here, now, this sentience, this empathy, this center, this humility, this egotism, is true life after birth.

This end is not an end. It circles, enhances, refines, humiliates, bolsters.

And in her final breath ... she finally sees, finally feels ... that ... life ... that ... death .. is ... pre-birth.

  

Back to the Two Minute Tales Page
Back to The Plexus Home Page