Welcome

The Snowflakes of Summer 

Day by day, 

hour by hour 

your form undergoes metamorphosis

like ecstatic butterflies bursting open.

As one poppy withers,

three more burst forth:

bright salmons,

alluring reds,

whites splashed with pink, 

violets wrinkled in crescendoing shades. 

Inside them:

yellow and black light bulbs,

sprouting hairs

like hypnotic rays of light. 

Golden pollen glistens,

smeared everywhere.  

Living gossamer 

cosmically unfurling. 

So delicate it melts at a touch,

petals cascading down. 

Each bloom unique,

like magical fingerprints of snowflakes. 

The ecstatic shivers 

of being wrapped in warm colors. 

A testament to divine existence

and exquisite intelligence. 

Tear Catcher’s Alchemy 

I want to catch my tears 

one by one.

There is one angry drop,

enraged by injustice.

Another in despair,

sad and longing.

Another frozen with fear.

I want to collect a sampling 

of these tear personalities.

One by one, 

until my tiny, 

iridescent glass

tear bottle is full.

On a sunny day, 

I will place it on the windowsill.

The prayer lights 

will strum the plethora 

of its harp, peaceful rays. 

Shooting multitudes of colors,

infusing my tears into a mix 

of metallic lights.

As the chemistry 

of light and time 

takes over, 

my tears will transform 

into a perfume—

rich, flowery, citrusy,

illuminating, uplifting, wise. 

I will wear it proudly. 

The finger prints 

of my sweat emotions

will further alchemize its fragrance. 

Then I will bathe myself in the ocean, 

purifying and shedding

the last trace. 

All remnants of my pain

becoming unperceivable in its vastness.

Isabella’s Dreams 

The desert, cracked and parched,

anguishing for rain to kiss it.

A connection, 

warm reunion:

two souls touching.

Finally, the empathy of rain

floods a loud thunder of relinquishment.

Her drought-suffocated tears, quenched.

Unspoken longing,

a thousand years of prayer.

Unlike the hardened, parched soil,

unable to absorb rain.

Her land absorbed all of it.

Primed in enriched receptivity.

The flood of her tears

fed poppy seeds.

She is now a lush, 

red ocean of poppies in full bloom.

So far and vast,

the eyes cannot grasp its end.

Perennial perpetuity,

eternally reawakening each spring.

The longing’s thirst quenched

by the victory of dreams.

Fire, Water and Light  

When his words would touch her, 

goosebumps would rise,

small hills erupting, 

hidden from his eyes. 

She would leave subtle clues,

quietly smirking,

illuminating the slivered crescent moon. 

He would light small tea candles. 

One by one

splashing dew drops 

upon the aura of her skin. 

This was a love that could fully fertilize. 

They had the rare, essential elements:

fire, water and light. 

But he carried a birth mark. 

One that reminded her 

of a former lover’s rancid wine. 

She thought he would not accept her. 

Her porcelain body unmarked, 

steeped with the flavor 

of tea leaf innocence. 

Her tribe: the ephemeral wind. 

His: lattice ancient roots. 

Their hearts were half water-filled caverns. 

Their interplaying waves, 

quivering touch. 

Cloistered,

a meek candle 

hiding the breadth 

of their capacity to love. 

Her tribe called her. 

She moved like the breeze,

extinguishing the oxygen 

of their first flint fire.

Shahrzad Taavoni is a poet, artist, licensed acupuncturist, and MFA candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Baltimore. She holds a Bachelor's degree in Psychology and dual Master’s degrees in Acupuncture and Herbology. Her work draws on the healing arts to explore themes of mythic consciousness, resilience, and ancestral resonance. Her poetry has appeared in Persian Heritage Magazine, and she has served as a reader for Honeycomb Literary Press. Shahrzad also integrates poetry, voice, and sculpture into her immersive light shows, which have been presented at Maryland Art Place, School 33 Art Center, and Subtle Rebellion Gallery.

Conversations with Dead Anne

I don’t know what happens after we die. But as a useful practice I’ve been imagining that some
aspect of “me” is able to revisit my life after I die.

So much gratitude, love, and learning.
And two feelings as related to hard times.
Compassion. Deep, deep compassion for the challenges of this human realm. My human heart
softens at this felt-sense reminder of the truth of what the Buddhists call dukkha. Suffering.
It’s not all that there is. Nor the heart of what is. But it is certainly part of human realm
experience.
Secondly, playful laughter. That is what I cared about?!
My everyday preoccupations and anxieties are right-sized. Made smaller. So much smaller.
Pop.
The field of love grows bigger. Love for myself. Love for others. Love beyond self and other.
Dead Anne has lots to teach living Anne.
May I listen.

What conversation do you want to have?

Anne Gorsuch writes short invitations to internal and relational practice informed by her meditation practice and work as an intuitional coach. She shares occasional brief reflections like this one with subscribers via https://www.annegorsuch.com/.

A Golden Rebirth

To rise from her ashes,

the Phoenix must die first.

From afar, she looks magical and regal,

but from inside, she is just an entity 

that must fully depart from existence, 

with the light itself turned completely black. 

From inside, she doesn’t know

she will be reborn.

From inside, she feels what each being feels 

when slain by a word’s blade.

Every part of her body and soul

is not just peacefully passing away,

but fiercely consumed by blue flames.

She dies in pain,

and she screeches in pain as she rises again.

And yet, every time she resurfaces,

she does so entirely and purely.

She rises in kindness, and beauty, and love – 

not untouched by the unwarranted act

of being silenced,

but undeterred in what she is at her core.

The light she carries within 

cannot be extinguished,

no matter how many times 

she is torn apart. 

A Golden Dandelion Puff

Dandelion puffs appeared,

as if from nowhere,

blown by an invisible current,

of an unexpected gust of wind,

and carried away to settle, at last,

on a different patch of land.

They looked happy,

like diaphanous, white pixies 

flying and chatting

about the next place to visit.

And although I am happy for them,

my heart broke in two,

as if struck by lightning.

It was in May, 

when infinite, fine clusters

of feathery bristles

with seeds attached to them 

drift freely, magically,

that my mother took her last breath

on the same plane I exist.

Yes, I saw her as a seed,

smiling and dressed in white,

hanging by a barely visible thread

of a silken, umbrella-like shape, 

and sailing on an inaudible, angelic song,

in the immensity of the universe.

And I am trying so very hard not to cry,

seeing dandelion puffs fly away,

for each will take root 

in some other, unknown space . . .

On a Golden Gust of Wind

The pain of being silenced, 

like a wind contained in a box – 

the pain of hitting the walls

over and again, and seeing no escape;

the pain of giving up,

of no longer looking for a way out;

and the pain of fighting, 

and holding on to hope

in loneliness,

in inescapable darkness . . .

Oh, and the pain of the realization

she always had a voice –

a voice so unique

nobody could hear it from inside

rigid structures man holds as sacred;

a voice kept in chains,

forged from pure light;

a voice meant to free . . . 

She was always outside the box, 

trying to get in.

She was always wild, 

playful, pure wind . . .

Golden Migration

I am going home.

Correction – 

I am embarking on my yearly migration

to my other home,

the home I abandoned

when restless and young,

in search for opportunity, I thought,

in search for freedom, I thought,

in search for a yearning inside

that I couldn’t ever quench – 

some sort of a static noise,

an encoded message 

possibly from the beyond,

I hear constantly

yet I don’t quite understand,

but that nevertheless drives me forward 

with urgency,

as if I need to go and seek something

of utmost importance. 

I found nothing – 

nothing at all, other than hurt:

the hurt of leaving and coming,

the hurt of misunderstandings, 

the hurt of surviving, really.

Correction – 

I found many beautiful little things

peppered in my way – 

a warm breeze, 

a flower in bloom, 

a whisper of love . . .

And in between migrating lands,

striving to fit two universes 

in one soul,

I got lost in entanglements of being 

and stumbled on my own shadows.

Correction – 

I want to correct my line of thought:

this time, I am truly going home – 

the home within,

the home that I am building

from my blood, sweat, and tears,

filled with beauty and love.

This time I am going home.

Cleopatra Sorina Iliescu, from Transylvania, Romania, lives in Atlanta with her two sons. She is the author of four poetry collections and holds a doctorate in education. In her series "In Golden Light," she weaves tender reflections on beauty, love, and loss—each poem unfolding the soul’s quiet mysteries.  

How My Father Decides He Wants a Green Burial

blight sickens

the flowering dogwood 

on whose silver gray branches 

my father watches birds 

from his death bed

gazing through the glass 

speaking to sparrows

in silent psalms in a tongue

only those with wings

could hear

he calls these creatures angels 

with claws

in morning shadows

the ghost 

of the dogwood’s last spring 

paints memories of heartwood 

on the ground

where the woundwort grows

where the earth 

is already beginning 

to break open

letting my father’s clawed angels

nest in worm-rich dirt 

feathered 

with birch bark and pinestraw

finding a haven

my father calls his next home 

when he dies I hear 

sparrows speak 

with the voice of my father

in flower 

in woundwort and weeds

Glory the Mourning with Morning: the Love Song of Mud 

glory the morning

who halos the holly

holy the vining

the twining

the rising to flower 

facing the sun

glory the offering 

of prayers of perfume

that come with the dying

of one faded flower

her sapphire trumpet

dropping to dirt

glory the ground

catching the fallen

love-struck 

by the blue blossom 

passing 

to root in the rich 

underall 

glory the earth 

in mourning

turning the fallen 

to feed 

new shoots of holly

in mud wet with worms,

in a bed deep-seeded 

with holy and hope

birthing the greens

from the blues 

How a 300-Year-Old Live Oak Saved My Life

on the edge 

of the Cooper River

by the brackish blue lagoon 

I creep into your wound

into the hollow 

where once you wore flesh

until god’s good lightening 

ripped you to open

to haven a heaven carved 

with stars and the scars of time

hiding in the heart of your hollow

I feel the pull of your roots 

how your dirt carries my feet 

your branches cradle my back 

your core seeds me to fruit

whispering the wounds 

of your womb I nest 

soothed by the bark of your tongue

brushing the moss in my hair

smelling of rain and wild onions

the grain of you in me

then I see the teeth coming 

claws nearing as a snort then a hiss

alligator breath razors the air 

death at the cup of my cave

sky splinters when thunder claps 

as a bough of you crashes 

hurled down at the predator’s head

he flees 

leaving me held wholly 

in the sweet safe of your shade

branching into your arms

my limbs grow leaves and lichen

acorns fall from my lips 

Lamentation Witnessed by Saplings 

on this desert day 

of holy fast

and unearned grief

I make the profound bow

head to knee

in memory of a boy

I never met

except 

in the Cooper River roots 

of this monastery

with its live oaks

and thorns of roses

except 

in the faith 

of hanging moss

branch-held

between the callings 

of earth and sky

where the boy knelt 

green-veiled 

bone-cancered

bearing thorns and roses 

in his hands

I witness him 

from the distance 

of the living

see him planting saplings

he called his children—

the live love oaks 

of the Cooper River

rubbed raw by deer

in dawn-dark communion

with the bark of saints

Mary Alice Dixon, twice-nominated for the Pushcart, is a poet with synesthesia who grows sunflowers in cow manure. She lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, where she reads poetry to the dying and leads grief writing workshops for hospice that include nature rituals, found poems, and gingerbread brownies. Find her at www.maryalicedixon.com.

Roots

Of all of the concepts of progress,
‘going back to your roots’

is most confusing.

Where did you go, so digressed?
Not realising those new green shoots

are growth from your own roots’ choosing.

How many rings in the tree
show years of poor growth?

In those years was so little seen,

that the leaves and roots forgot
that they are one tree, both? 

Dan Mellor has travelled the world through war and through peace. He has found himself, lost himself, and found himself once more. Through pain and suffering, he has been blessed with awareness of himself
and the world around him, and now he would like to share.

Asclepias

                                                    coffin shaped

                                  in-utero resurrection

                Lazarus       Jesus        Krishna

Osiris of the irrigation ditch

seeds spill out            as tiny specks of light flotsam

tangled        in the remnants of constellations 

of the northern hemisphere

the proto-gods         never came into existence

speaking every green thing           into being

even this small flake of a seed tethered 

with white filament       made to expatriate 

themselves        from home territory 

trusting the feminine divine         guidance 

placement among         fertile soil  

Justin Evans was born and raised in Utah. He served in the army and then graduated from Southern Utah University and later the University of Nevada, Reno. He lives in rural Nevada with his wife and sons, where he teaches at the local high school. Justin’s seventh full-length book of poetry, Cenotaph, was released in March of 2024 from Kelsay Books. His poems have recently appeared in weber: The Contemporary West, The Meadow, Wild Roof, and Collateral. Justin has received two Artist Fellowship Grants from the State of Nevada.  

Diary of Old Age, No. 28
 

Love in reality
is a dreadful
& divine thing,
dangerous itself
& a reckoning
deadly & auspicious,
a striptease of soul
& vulnerable heart
in the dark night
of all the senses.
Beyond sentiments
& shoddy calculations,
love in ancient age
is a liminal gate
to luminous surprise
& sacred absurdity
of loving in extreme
without cravings
with God’s love
for God alone
without doubt
or death’s fear.
Love in reality
is innocent &
harsh beyond
all embarrassment,
a radical giving
through suffered
excruciating grace.
  

Diary of Old Age, No. 30
 

God has given me
a terrible & baffling
gift, a singularly
grotesque grace,
the desert fire
of rogue solitude
in its intensities
& latent potentials
for loneliness
or the mystery
of being alone
with God alone
in timely eternity
before death.
Suffered, necessary
solitude as threshold
crucible passage
into the drama
of divine life
& disappearing
in a wilderness
of silent solitary
sacred communion.

Diary of Old Age, No. 34
 

Carried on sacrificial winds
across thresholds of time
between here & eternity
the concealed & opaquely
obvious face of Jesus,
inscrutable in simplicity
mystical in suffered love,
appears as an unborn
about to be aborted
in eruptions of pure pain,
as a wailing Jewish baby
dispatched into perfect
silence on an Auschwitz day,
in the corrupted angel’s face

of an abandoned child
of the streets at dawn,
as palpable obscurity
of a solitary old woman
forgotten by everyone,
even in shrouded ambiguities
of anxious & depressed souls,
in the scared eyes of despair,
prisoners of addictive demons
& all those killing Christ today.

Diary of Old Age, No. 35
 

A poetic diary of old age
is a thinly disguised diary
of death intruding upon
the ancient dance of life.
As years accumulate &
my body wrinkles & withers
passing into my 9th decade
of breathing inexorably
to that final rite of passage
of summarily disappearing
from earthen habit of being
into ever-nascent eternity,
death becomes a strange
friend, elliptical companion

encircling my ways & days
with intricate intensities
soberly reminding me
of God’s total intoxication
by ineffably personal love
for the living & dying me,
a love born from death.

Alan Altany has a Ph.D. in religious studies and is a semi-retired, septuagenarian professor of Comparative Religions at a small college in Florida, USA. He has published three books of poetry for a series, “Christian Poetry of the Sacred”: A Beautiful Absurdity (2022), The Greatest Longing (2023), and Intimations (2024). Alan's poetry website is at https://www.alanaltany.com/. 

When It's Your Turn

The light of the sun shone brightly on his face from above a break in the trees in the forest, yet it was neither cold nor warm. He found he could look directly at the sun, see the billowing coronas, and it didn’t hurt one bit.

The meadow beside him smelled sweet, and flocks of bright birds ribboned through the sky in streaks of color. The scent of sandalwood and vanilla grew stronger the more he noticed it.

He smiled. What a beautiful day. He couldn’t remember feeling this good. The pain in his neck was gone, and his lungs felt full of air. He looked down and saw his body seemed younger, and for the first time, he felt a pang of worry. Something wasn’t right.

“You’re taller than I remember you,” a voice beside him said. He turned and saw an old, kindly looking man in a loose, raw leather shirt, sitting on a cherrywood bench.

“Do I know you? I’m sorry, I can’t remember,” the man said.

“In a way,” the elder man said, and placed a hand gently on the bench beside him. “Come and sit with me for a while.”

The man sat. “What is this place?”

“Always the first question, but a hard one to answer. For now, let’s call this the afterlife.”

“I’m dead?”

“You have left your body.”

“Is this heaven?”

“Another challenging question. Here, whatever you desire is yours, and you can stay for as long as you choose. If that’s heaven to you, then yes, this is heaven.”

“And then what?”

“And then you move on.”

“Where?”

The old man smiled. “I will answer any of your questions, but let’s save that one for later. It will make more sense when you have a better understanding.”

The man looked down. “I want to see my wife. Is she here?”

“She is.”

“Where?”

“I’m right here,” the old man said.

“You’re not my wife. Where is Lucy? I want to see her.”

“Of course.”

And she was there. Smiling. Familiar. The man stood up and embraced her. “Oh God, I’ve missed you so much.”

He began to sob. “I’ve missed you too, my love,” she said back, looking at him longingly.

They kissed. Here she was, perfect and beautiful and happy. This truly was heaven.

The man disappeared, and they were alone. They sat on the bench and spoke for hours. Kissed. Held each other. Made love. 

The hours passed, although how long was hard to tell, as the sky had fallen into a perpetual state of sunset. As the hours passed, the man asked many questions, to which she couldn’t seem to answer. He realized her responses seemed to be repeating. She was there, but something felt different. She was too happy, too loving. There was no sadness or regret or memory in her.

He turned and saw the old man was back, sitting beside them on the bench. “Why did you say you were her, if she is here?”

“As you are probably realizing, that is not your wife. Not really. It’s your memory of her. You said you wanted to see her, and so you did. Whatever you desire happens here.”

His wife was no longer beside him. “I desire to speak to my wife.”

The old man gently took his hand. “And I am here. I am your wife. And your mother, your father, and every ancestor before you.”

The man pulled his hand away. “And I suppose you’re my children?”

“No. It is not their turn.”

“What do you mean. You are being vague.”

“I’m not trying to. I find it's better to ease into this. It is overwhelming. Trust me, I know.”

“Then tell me.”

“Of course.” A door suddenly appeared. White, and tall, with nothing behind it. “This door is where you will pass, if you choose to. When you do, all of the memories of every living thing that has ever been will be yours. And you will be theirs.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that when I say I am your wife, I am telling the truth. I am her, and she is me. I remember what it felt like when you got down on one knee, shaking and sweaty, and I pretended like I didn’t know that you were going to ask me. I remember the first time we made love. And the last time, when we both held each other and sobbed.”

The man looked deep into the old man’s eyes. “Lucy?”

The elderly man touched his cheek. “I’m here.”

The man shuddered. “So if I go through that door, I die?”

“Not at all. You are already dead. When you go through that door, you simply… learn.”

“Learn what?”

“Everything every living creature in the universe has learned.”

“So I’ll know everything? The meaning of life? What happens to my children?”

“Not exactly. We are still learning.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are the last living creature to have died. When you choose to merge with us, your experiences will be a part of us. But we only know what has happened up until the moment you left your body.”

“But haven’t others died since I’ve been here? Where are they?”

“This place is outside of time, in a sense. When you are ready, the next life will join us.”

“So, you’re not God?”

“I suppose that I am, in a way. As much as you are.”

“So, what created all of this? The universe, this place?”

“You did. I did.”

“How? You aren’t making any sense.”

“We are one and the same. At least we were. And will be.”

The man shook his head. “Why? What is the purpose? I don’t understand.”

“The purpose is what we choose it to be. To love, to learn, to be together. To grow.”

The man shook his head more vigorously. “It doesn’t make sense. If you made all of this, why is there so much suffering? What’s the point?”

“There is no point to suffering, other than what we give it.”

“But you could stop it.”

“I do. Sometimes. And sometimes, I cause it. Sometimes it brings me closer to understanding love, to caring about others. Other times, only despair. I know that may not feel like a satisfying answer. We’re still learning.”

The man swallowed. “I hurt someone.”

“Yes,” God said. “I remember.”

“Do they hate me?”

“Not anymore. I don’t hate you.”

“They should. You should.”

“I have learned by now that ‘should’ is one of the most meaningless concepts our mind has created.”

“You keep saying ‘we.’ What do you mean?”

“I mean we were one, once, as we shall be again.”

“So I was God? I created all of this?”

“I know, it’s confusing.”

“Why?”

“You were alone. There was nothing. You knew nothing, alone in the darkness. You wanted more.”

“So I made a universe?”

“Many. Bursts of light and darkness, energy and matter. Expanding and shrinking, dissolving, freezing. But you 

wanted more.”

“More?”

“Life. You learned to adjust the parameters. Gravity, the speed of light. Physics.”

“So this is a simulation?”

“Not at all. This is the first universe you created that was capable of creating life. But it wasn’t enough to just observe it. You wanted to live it. Every life that ever formed.”

“So you’ve been a jellyfish?”

“Not exactly. There is no experience or memory from the life of a jellyfish. To experience life, there must be awareness.”

“So, not until humans?”

“Oh, no. Long before then. Millions of years ago. Somehow, we created a universe where matter formed into thought. I still don’t understand it. My earliest memories, while not much more than an impression or feeling, were of flatworms. At least on earth.”

“So, there is life on other planets?”

“Oh, yes. Long before there was life on Earth. Although Earth is truly special.”

“So, does every creature come here when they die? Do you have this conversation with an ant?”

“This place didn’t come about until there were creatures capable of having this conversation. I created it, somehow, when I was a creature that had the ability to understand it. I was afraid, and I did not want to return. Other animals simply pass through, and join us. There is no resistance. They are happy to come back. I didn’t count on there being a mind like yours.”

“Like mine?”

“Like humanity. When I lived the lives of your ancestors, hundreds of thousands of your years ago, I first came here, and had this first conversation. It wasn’t as… sophisticated. The language, the understanding. But it had to be their choice.”

“Who was he?”

“Her name was just a grunt, but now she is called Eve. She is here. Your grandmother, a few thousand times over.”

The man grinned. “Hello, Eve.”

God nodded and smiled. “Hello, grandson.”

“What’s it like being an ant?”

“Oddly, peaceful. There’s a simplicity and joy in a life where purpose comes from moving a dead beetle up a hill.”

The man took a deep breath. “This is overwhelming.”

“Of course. I think you know, by now, that I understand.”

The man stood up. “So I can stay here for as long as I choose?”

“You can soar up into the clouds, throw parties with all of your family, eat and drink the finest foods you’ve 

ever tasted.”

“But none of it would be real? None of them are real?”

“Correct. They are constructs of your mind. We are all right here.”

The man looked around. The gentle wind rustled the leaves and brushed across his face. He inhaled the strong scent again and felt a wave of love and joy. He turned back to God.

“Will you come with me?”

“Of course.”

The man stood in front of the door.

“What’s on the other side? What will it feel like?”

“This door leads to a room. In that room, you will remember everything. And then there is another door.”

“Another door?”

“Two actually. One for me, and one for you.”

“Where does yours go?”

“Back to Earth. I will start my next life. Time works differently here, so I will live the life of the next being to die. Most likely an ant. It’s always ants.”

“And my door?”

“It brings you back here.”

“Why?”

“You will greet me, once I have experienced the life of a human. I will have many questions.”

“And then?”

“Then you take me through the door. Just as I will take you.”

“And I go through the second door? I start again.”

“Precisely.”

The man chuckled. “How long do we keep doing this?”

“Until there is no more life. I suspect it will be a while.”

“Can I stop it? Can I end this cycle? Stop experiencing this?”

“Of course. At any time. But you won’t.”

“Why not?”

“You will see.”

“And when it’s over? When the universe freezes over, and there is no more life?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps we adjust the parameters, start again. Maybe we can make it better. Less suffering. Maybe we split up all of our consciousness back into the individual parts and live together for eternity in love and peace. Perhaps we just sit in this meadow and enjoy the sun. But I suspect by then, we will know what to do.”

“This is all too much.”

“Tell me about it. Are you ready?”

God held out his hand, and the man clasped it. “Is it going to be painful?”

“More so than anything you have ever experienced. But also more beautiful.”

“I’m scared.”

“We’ll do it together. I’ll be there.”

The man placed his hand on the handle of the door and held it. He took a deep breath, and turned. The door opened. He passed the threshold.

----

It was not light.

It was everything.

He remembered it all. His mother soothing him as he cried. The girl he mocked, coming home and crying into her pillow. The moment she forgave him. The soldier he killed. The stranger in need whom he ignored. The ant pushing the beetle up the hill.

Trillions of lives surged through him. Their stories. Their pain. Their small, stubborn joys. The suffering.

When he thought he would break from it, beauty washed over him like a tidal wave.

Love. Joy. Beauty. Wonder. The universe witnessing itself.

He turned to God. “Everyone I’ve ever hurt. Everyone I ever loved. The cruelty, the compassion. The pain. The joy. I did it to myself. I hated myself. I loved myself.”

God winked. “Welcome home, grandson.”

The man looked over and saw the two doors. God walked through his, stopping to give a final wave, and disappeared, along with the door.

The man stood in the memories, but they were not his, and his were not theirs. He was ready. 

There was nothing else but light, and the door standing in front of him. He opened the door, and his life became theirs, and their lives became his. No longer just memories, but one being. He was home.

The bench sat in front of him. He sat beneath the tree and waited.

Not knowing who would come next, but ready.

Now it was their turn.

Jon Gianelli is a high school teacher, single father, and skeptic who often ponders what God could be. This story came to him as he was falling asleep, and it began changing how he viewed the world around him.