The dwelling is available as soon as you watch your loved one’s gurney being pushed down a sterile hall to a place you cannot follow, or each time the nurse calls their name.
It’s immaculate except for the pillars of salt left by the tears of the fortunate ones, those who’ve only spent one season here. The ones who return know this place by a pain deeper than tears, and leave no trace.
Your view is of Charon the ferryman gently guiding your loved one across the Styx towards the far bank, the bank we will all someday tread, before turning away; he navigates this passage unabatedly, coming nearer to each shore, not landing on the side of either the living or the dead until medical science has run its course. Only then will he determine which bank to deliver your precious cargo upon, that soul outside of your own that gives your life its meaning.
The rent is paid by the brooding, sleepless frustration that comes from not being able to comfort your loved one, by your inability to soothe their pain, or better yet, to take their suffering upon yourself.
All are welcome.Tweet