when memory leaves my body i will be free to live on a planet where everything is white: the sun, the sky, the ocean. i will lie to rest in a field with moist green grass, soft brown soil, and gentle, vibrant bugs and worms of every color. the grass will whisper, welcome home. we are so glad you finally made it and will not doubt their honesty.
i will touch my body and marvel at its newness, its lightness, its sweat. i will graze my left forearm, find its 40 scars gone, and feel only the tenderness of grace. i will cup my stomach and render it visible, dignified.
i will stroke the vacant grass beside me and recognize the absence of those who did not make it, while affirming the deservingness of their arrival, along with the worthiness of mine. i will send each of the dead warm regards forged of light, love, and fondness, and inherit their camaraderie in return.
i will lie there only until i am ready to rise, and will not count the days, as there will be no more days, weeks, years, or time—only sunsets and sunrises so bright they are blinding.
when i stand up and walk towards the boundless horizon, each footstep will disappear behind me as quickly as it is made. even so, i will know exactly where i am headed and where i have been.
