Page 14 - The Wave Holistic and Metaphysical Journal Nov Dec 2015

DOUBT, DEATH
r
THEN TRANSCENDENCE
by Jesse Austin
Well, the doctor told you...You’ve got it...You’re dead. You barely have time to get your affairs in order. (Not really. It is a benign cyst – you will be in and out of the office the same day.)
Dying is like running for a plane; maddening, scary and timeless in the worst way. Death, however, is the wonderful foreign country where you sit in the quaint courtyard, breathing in the powerful scent of flowers.
But darn, you are not dead. Stretching out ahead, day after day, is the rearguard retreat of your various armies (dreams).
Your consciousness flits with doubt, fear and frustration.
No? You’re happy, you say? You got it going on?
But your foot hurts. Your daughter slapped a kid at school. And at work, you fired Joe. Then you hired him back. And Marci stormed home saying she’s quitting, effective immediately.
Last night you sat on your neighbor’s deck. He’s ancient, he smells, and his wife, your dear friend,
died last spring. Even outside the old man’s stench is overwhelming. What is going on with Charlie? But you sit still, you listen, you offer encouragement.
“Oh, Helen loved you,” you repeat several times.
You hug the stooped old man, gather your dishes, promising more cooked food by Thursday. When will you get it all done?
Walking next door, you see your daughter through the kitchen window. She is sitting at the table, leaning
“Ghost Cat” original artwork by Jesse Austin
over a book. Is she studying or reading one of those simpleton graphic novels? You storm up the back steps. Your kid, by god, is going to college. That means grades, not cartoons, even in junior high.
You flash into the room, but before you can say a word you see that Ayanna is crying. Now what? More trouble at school? Is she hurt? Then you see the limp white cat spread on newspaper on the table.
“What happened, honey?” you say, bringing yourself back from the brink.
Your tender daughter tells you she found the cat in the street. You touch the stiff white shoulder. Way too late for the vet. Oh, boy. Whose cat is it even? Why now? You have five calls to make tonight.
But you gear down. Your daughter needs your reassurance, your wonderful insight. But the dead cat on your kitchen table makes your stomach lurch. For a moment you are unsteady. You put a parental hand on your daughter’s shoulder.
Suddenly your daughter knows. She is up, out of the chair and sweeps her arms around you. You drop your chin on the top of her red hair; the tears roll down your face.
“It’s Ok, mom,” Ayanna says. “Get the flashlight, we will bury him tonight.”
Death for you has always been the stark scream in the night. You can’t deal with it. Out in the yard your daughter is breathing hard, digging the ground with William’s oversized shovel. In his time your husband was a drinker. He died in bliss, drunk, driving off the state
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