It is time and I am at the doors, with my bag of answers, ready to answer any question, to prove my worthiness to be allowed in, to the land where my children reside. And yet, contrary to what I’ve been warned, few questions are asked of me, disappointing the eager jostling, of answers within my bag. I’m allowed in.

It is this very bag of answers I must lose, at the threshold before my passing, into that land, which has doors everywhere, appearing often, most unexpectedly.