Bottom of a Lake

Slightly below the surface of sleep, you dream of mansions, thunderstorms and banquets. The room around you is still, heavy, waiting.

Your eyes open and you feel yourself moving upwards, as if pulled from the bottom of a lake.

Your phone is ringing. It is midday. Thoughts cloud in, like thunder clouds: did he slip away in the night? When he goes, will you know, somehow? Is this part of "God's plan"? Is there a God? What is heaven? What is hell? Is this hell? Does this mean anything? Is there a reason for suffering? When will this end? Will it be quietly, in the night, or will it be months from now, after endless phone calls, thousands of tiny tablets, glasses of water, sleepless nights, text messages of support, prayers let loose into the ether (to be heard by...?) and flowers sent by courier?

Today it is raining. A thunderstorm is coming. A thunderstorm has passed. It is midday. It is night time. Your phone is ringing. You answer it. It is your friend, you see on the display, and you sigh, because it is not what you thought, and your friend is asking if you would like to meet for coffee. Your heart rate slows, slowly, and you dress and leave the house, arms full of umbrella and sorrow.

Life is always a little like sinking, you think; into the lakes formed by the endless rain, into the chasms formed by the rivers, into fitful sleep, and right at the end, when you slip away, slowly, forever.