Empty Line Never forget, words are not reality. . . words are confusion. Strive to see the inner eye, the heart. . . it sees the essence. -- from Egyptian Book of the Dead
I’m sorry Liz, the receptionist stops me. You have to sign in. How had I ended up here, her knowing me by name? I sign under spellings of those who came before, in between the red thin lines of a log codified by name, date, time of arrival and departure. Crossing river rocks, crisscrossing river rocks, dried and epoxied into a hallway, I progress down Hospice corridors. Fluorescent lights chant nervously. A gurney aside a wall holds flat a body bag. Its zipper grins in a clique of yellow flowers on canvas. What daisy crazed fool came up with that design. In room 142, beside the bed, the concave of a chair made by someone already gone. Amulet of a cheek bone and shock of hair emerge in light from under a hand-stitched quilt. A nurse arrives smelling of citrus, Iris, her name etched in blue on plastic. How’s it going? she asks. I shrug words. Consciousness, little left, drips away like fluid in an IV bag. My heart slows, drains, passes through a cotton underworld. I rest aside dying. Count breathes in the sheets’ shifting angle of repose. Who counts mine? Who riddles my clues? Who weighs my heart against the feather of truth?
