Resting

If the room stays dark like this for long enough, maybe I can work out what my soul really is. It’s hard to think when there is too much light. There is too much light in this world as it is. If I focus long enough, maybe I will finally see my soul. Our books tell us that the soul never dies, that it only moves on from one state to another. My body then, it’s like a hollow mud pot, this liquid filling it to the brim. I feel it sloshing around in my chest, but no, that’s probably just phlegm. In this quiet dark, I see my soul fluttering like a butterfly, just out of my reach. Maybe I will never catch it. One wing blue, another red, my good and bad karma battling each other, always in balance. I won’t have any final judgement, just this balance, always flying on, another home, and then another, and another. Maybe I’ll never really find any rest.

She lies placed on her side, her back has turned sore. The ward is quiet, everyone asleep except for a nurse on duty. In the morning, they find that she has gone. Mother worked too much, she never took care of herself, her children say, wiping their eyes. Before her body leaves for the crematorium, all the visitors stop to look at mother, and exclaim, how restful she looks. Her colleagues from the college marvel at her peaceful visage. She never looked like this when she was alive, they whisper. We did our best for her really, her sons protest to everyone. Although no one asks them to explain.