I’ve always hated that saying, You’re born alone, You die alone.
I think that when we are born we hear our mother’s heartbeat, and the rush of her blood, and we are connected to her, are we not? until someone comes and cuts the cord?
And then we are laid on her breast skin to skin and our hearts beat time with hers still.
When I die, I hope to have company.
I don’t mean I want a posse of people to die with me ala funeral pyre or pyramid burial (I always thought it was so cruel that the favorite dog or horse or wife was included), I mean I would like to be accompanied by the love of my friends and family, by their tears, and I would like the comfort of many, many memories.
That is the sign of a life well-lived.
I am optimistic that my brain will help me along my way, either by showing me lights, or guardian angels or Dumbledore with his beard foaming over his robes and those kindly, sparkling eyes behind his half-moon spectacles.
Or maybe it will be a character from one of my own books, someone I have loved, who holds her hand out to me and says “Come.”
A person told me once that we each have our own personal heaven. So mine would have dragons and a landscape like Iceland or New Zealand or Nova Scotia, and plenty of adventure. Oh, and also trees that grow dark chocolate bars with sea salt or wasabi, which is my new favorite thing.
And my son told me that his heaven would be a house made completely out of marshmallows and on every wall there would be a picture of me.
I think my dragon and I will definitely fly and visit him as often as we can.