I dreamed I died. And that was a relief. There isn’t any trying after death. My soul was made. How could death unmake it? The book couldn’t fit inside the grave. It had grown in the night. The wind blew its pages around. Had I been the tree after all? A little of my former self remains. And after all the storms and sunny days, was I the only one who couldn’t attended? Last night, I dreamed I died and then awoke, not on the other side of death, but to see: the room exactly as I left it. The furniture standing in its place. An empty space beside me. My wife busy downstairs. My whole life lives inside this house. My house contains what I call home. The world lies where my stoop begins. If I should die again tonight, I know exactly what to do. If I should wake to find I am alive, then who knows what happens next.
One Whose Name Is Writ In Water 