WHAT COMES NEXT
By David Allen
I walked toward the bright light
And as it dimmed I saw my mother
Sitting on a swing.
She smiled and asked,
How I liked the trip.
“The trip?” I asked
“Yes, the life you just left.
How’d you like it?”
I was stunned.
“What did you learn this time?” she asked.
I struggled to understand what was happening.
My Mom died years ago and moments ago
I had slipped on the stairs
While taking out the garbage.
“Oh, hon, I can see you’re confused.
That wasn’t a smooth transition.”
She rose from the swing and took my hand.
“Life is all about learning,” she said.
“It’s a series of trips towards enlightenment.
How’d you like this last one?”
It was then I realized I had died
And was newly alive.
Impressions from my latest life
Flooded my mind and, overwhelmed,
I sank to the ground.
My mother sat next to me.
“It was alright,” I finally stammered.
“I found my muse.
I traveled the world
And had children and grandkids.
And I wrote poetry.
I was happy.”
“And what did you learn?”
My mother asked.
Her smile warmed me.
“I learned not to hate,” I said.
“I helped others when I could.
I laughed more.”
“Good,” she said. “You’re progressing.”
She squeezed my folded hands.
“Now, do you want to go back?
Or would you like to rest before
Your next lesson?
Some of your family and friends
Are waiting to see you.”
“I’d like to see them, too,” I said.
“But only for a while.
There’s still a lot more to see and do.
Maybe I can make a difference.”
“You already have,” my Mom said.
“Now let’s party for a bit.
We’ve been waiting for you.”
Sometime later, she pressed my upper lip
So I’d not remember where I’d been.
And I slowly disappeared.
And a beautiful girl baby was born
To an immigrant couple
Inside the domed city
On Mars.
