we were told an end was never really an end.
that time is an infinite line whose wingspan embraces before and after and everything in between.
i always walked this line like a tightrope,
never really quite certain of where i’d end up.
death skinned her knee on the sidewalk today.
i gave her some antiseptic and a bandage.
i asked her what she was doing in my neighborhood. she said she’s taking people home.
she said mother earth is in hospice.
it’s better this way.
death knocked on my door.
she’d bled through the first bandage.
i gave her another.
i asked her if it will hurt.
she said we would not feel.
she said our bodies will know what to do.
she said our eyes will close to this lifetime and open again in another.
death sat down at my kitchen table.
i poured her a cup of tea.
i asked her where we will go
and what will we become.
she said we will transcend into omniscience.
that our existence will be everything and nothing all at once.
she said we will be liberated of earthly limitations.
that we’d dissolve into the sands of time and exist behind the barricades of an hourglass.
she said once the sands have run through
and after our souls have become weary
that we would be scattered into the sky
swaddled in darkness and
christened by light.
hannah whalen was born in a small town in sacramento, california in august of 1999. in her spare time she enjoys writing poetry and prose pieces, creating art, thrifting and up-cycling clothing, spending time with friends and family and playing with animals. she is currently in her second year at portland state university pursuing a degree in social sciences.