At Death's Door

Today's muse:

This was prompted by a dream I had last night. It was disturbing in its reality. I'm standing there, patting my empty pockets saying "where the fuck are my keys?!" Oddly, St. Peter didn't seem fazed that I was cussing in front of him. The only comforting thing is that dreams are symbolic and rarely have anything to do with what you actually dreamt. Still, when I go, I hope someone has the wherewithall to put my keys in my pocket.

Posted at Six Sentences

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At Death's Door

St. Peter steps aside and, with an exaggerated flourish, waves me toward gilded gates. They are exactly as I imagined: enormous, imposing, beautiful and inviting. I am awed that my trip took me north, rather than into the deep south, where I imagine the climate is somewhat warmer.

“Please,” he gestures again, “come inside.”

I gaze through the bars, imagine what utopian universe lies beyond, and my heart sinks as I realize I am not prepared for this journey.

“I lost my key.”