My best friend died.
She wasn’t supposed to.
No one should go at 42.
At least I got to say goodbye.
She was in the hospital,
A sallow-skinned satire of herself.
Half-vacant eyes looked at me.
I admit I was fearful; I didn’t know what I
Would see if I looked in deep.
And now I was in the car heading home
For the funeral.
I didn’t ask to go this way.
My sister didn’t know, but
she drove us past a large hillside
Near the service station off the highway.
I saw a staircase that had once only
Been in a dream.
One of those that comes
Late in a sleep cycle and doesn’t let go quietly
as morning inches towards the light.
It was a winding staircase of stone and wood,
Climbing a shadowed hillside.
It led to a house that filled my entire body
with dread, like a horror-movie skeleton
curling around my chest,
whispering vile words into my ears.
A place where edges blur and shed.
I was too afraid to stop and
see what it led to.
Because I knew.
I knew why it was there,
I knew why I was there.
Some say dreams are a message
Or a connection to a realm
we cannot see.
They straddle the planes of
Existence precariously,
While we’re left with black clothing,
worn ceremoniously.
My friend died and all I got was this
Dream, this staircase, this sadness.
I didn’t ask to go this way.
But I knew why I was there.
