Going Bovine

The ocean. A house. And there’s the old lady in her garden. She looks up briefly, nods, and goes right back to planting her garden. So I go on in the house. Walk upstairs. It smells sweet. There’s lily of the valley in a jar on the dresser. And the window looks out on the ocean, where the sun and its shadow hang low in the sky. The bed’s been turned down, and I realize I’m really tired. But a good tired, like I’ve spent all day at the beach. The sheets are cool and welcoming as I slip in.

It’s like everything is slowing down inside me. Beep. Beep. Whirr. Whirr. The ceiling. White like the moon. Like snow with all its words. The angel picture on the wall.

Beep. Whirr.

Mom, Dad, and Jenna are gathered around me. Glory steps over to the respirator and flicks a switch. She turns off the EKG and the heart monitor, too, flipping switches till the room is perfectly quiet. I’m sort of floating here. It’s not bad. It’s not anything, really.

Mom and Dad each take one of my hands. Jenna sits beside me. Everything slows. The room gets darker, and I feel like I’m being pulled toward something I can’t see. Things streak past me. Stars. Gases. Satellites. Whole planets wobble and careen away. Universes, too. It makes me feel vast and impossibly small at the same time. Connected.

Just before the room falls completely away, Glory puts a hand over my eyes and just like that, the world disappears.