Halfway Betwixt Worlds by Edwin
[Excerpt] Alfred is 95 years old, and sits quietly in his wheelchair, rocking back and forth.
One day, Alfred will depart. He will leave the broken, failing bits of form behind, an empty shell on a beach, a shed snake-skin, old antlers. One day Alfred, finally and fully himself, will draw a deep, first, precious breath from air in a place he prayed to go, and open his new eyes on landscapes and visions and joys he could never in his best imagination hope to have. He will touch his own arms, firm and strong, and new blood flow through vessels that will never narrow. He will stand and be amazed. He will hear waves crash, or wind in trees, and the music of being truly alive at last.
And if all goes as he dreams (and it is likely his dreams are now visions), he will see God first, and his Ruby second and all the others who make the same trip and longed to see him again. And then all the journey and trouble, all the wait for finality, all the pain and loss will not only make sense, but be irrelevant to his new, redeemed, perfect life.
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