Thursday, January 26, 2012

leave the light on

“Mama, what happens when we die?
Do we disappear into darkness,
like my hand does when the sun drops behind the mountains?
Do we evaporate like mist, gently lighting on the ground where we fell?
Or do we stop existing?”
“Mama, close the door, but not
all the way. Leave a light that I can run to when the darkness tries to take me.
Turn on a little TV, so I know you’re still out there.
Leave me now, but don’t go too far.”
When the sun goes down, is the whole universe dark?
Will I be able to see when I die?
Or will I be blind, deaf, and dumb?
Entombed forever in the knowledge of my own nonexistence,
Mummified.
Hold my hand while I sleep so that I don’t drift away.
I don’t like waking up alone.
The chill in the room wraps around my bones and strangles me with its persistent nothingness,
Its persistent nooneness.
Empty of Someone,
It is filled with ghosts and ghouls that could chase me off this bed and into something
called Hell.
Fill my ears with sound so that nothing else can get in.
Don’t let me think on this empty space anymore, 
Don’t let me die!
For that awful Figure will come to claim this life one day, Mama, keep him at bay.
“Baby, when you were born we all stood waiting,
wanting to welcome you home.
When you came, you were crying.
But when I held you, you were safe and warm.
That’s what happens when we die.
Everyone will be waiting for you to wake up,
And when you do,
You’ll never be alone again.”

-Sarah Sanders, '12