Death

In the Quaker meetinghouse a blank, pointless, purposeless wall rises and curves out, appearing to separate from the western wall behind it, cresting like a frozen wave, and across its blankness are projected squares of moving light, faint or glaring depending on the season and the hour, sliding slowly down and disappearing. "Death, like an overflowing stream," the Puritans sang, "Sweeps us away; our life's a dream." How much longer? When I open my eyes the wall is blank, the light gone. How much longer? When I open them again the light has changed. A square of sun blazes in an upper window, but the wall is still blank. The most joyous, affirming moment of the hour was when we pressed our shoulders gently together. And they stayed that way several minutes before we separated.