What if forever were a day, I thought. It was somehow what I always thought heaven, or the afterlife, were like...
A blue sky, white clouds; that was the first thing I saw. The cool breeze ran through neatly trimmed grass like children on a spring day -- happy, with all abandon. I lay in that grass field until the realization came that this was not some image I'd imagined. Sitting up, I could hear the nearby stream and the whispering echo of it off of the underside of the wooden bridge nearby. There were flowers, tall and aging trees still cloaked in new leaves.
There was also a small cabin. Square and pale brown, the color of cut logs only weathered slightly, a warm orange glow within. The small entryway porch reminded me of something from half forgotten memory. It led to a tall ceiling, a round table of sofas and chairs, and small kitchen in the back, and a second floor secluded by a thin network of wood guardrails.
My mind seemed oddly empty of thought and memory; turned in-side-out filled only with the scene before me. Then I heard someone.
Many friends, each individually, came to visit. We ate, talked, laughed, and cried, until there we no more words. A simple glance away, a moment of distraction in that state, and someone else was in their place. And I would eat, talk, laugh and cry once more. Shadows among the glasses and plates grew imperceptibly longer with each friendly face I saw.
Until then, it was around 3:00.
I turned, and found myself alone. None of this gave me concern, all seems so natural and serene here. I gathered the remnants of conversation, cleansed them, and put them in place in the back kitchen. Much else happened: I walked the grass perimeter, placed my feet in the stream and let cool tendrils of water slip between my toes, weeded and planted in my flower garden, and even replaced that cracked window pane I'd been meaning to get to.
On the table I found a pen, and a few sheets of parchment. And there, I wrote my last journal entry placing the last period of the last sentence on the very last line of the very last page. It was evening out and I could feel the stars and night calling.
I could see. The dim crescent moon not overtaking the blues and purples of the galactic disk or the endless pinpoints of light. One was brighter than the rest -- my star. Then I knew my choice, the one the universe had given: The moonlight reflected off of the surface of the stream; I ran my fingers across, dissolving and indiscernible from the light. I spread myself on that surface gazing at the only star seen, thanking it with a modest smile.
I heard footfalls on the bridge...