If death should come and find me here,

How could I protest?

I’ve often said I have no fear.

So if it puts me to the test

I may choke and roll my eyes

And clutch at one last breath;

But when it’s done I’ll realize:

I have no fear of death.

What awaits us on that far shore? Actually, that’s a beautiful metaphor, serving both Christian and pagan ideas of Death. The Christians waiting for the golden shore where the Civitas Dei comes down to the water’s edge; the pagans riding over on Charon’s boat. The one shore is on the other side of Jordan, the other on the other side of Styx.

But really, Death is not a river, not a far shore. Death is a curtain. A heavy, velvet curtain, thick and red, lined, with deep vermillion tassels, and we simply pass through it, and then we are on the other side. Then we are in that next life, where Hamlet was afraid he would wake up if he went to sleep in that sleep brought on by the bare bodkin. I wonder if you even care when you get there about everybody you left behind. Apparently not, because those who go through the curtain never think to part if from the other side and whisper to us what it’s like through that slit. Like your brother promising to write or call as soon as he gets to Paris, but when he gets there he’s so engrossed, having such an overwhelming experience, he forgets to call or write. Or does somebody go through the curtain, Mors, and then when they make a gesture to turn around and part the veil to whisper something to us, somebody touches his shoulder and shakes his head, “no.” And that person, somewhat embarrassed, moves along, and soon is so engrossed and overwhelmed with the beauty of the next estate that he really gives us no other thought. But really, what’s it like over there? Soon I’ll turn around, part the veil, and whisper to you. Warte, nur balde ruhe ich auch.

So Thanksgiving is coming up in two days, so Thanks. I mean it.