Member-only story
MWC Prompt: Death
Transition
The Form Change we Call Death
The sticky ripping of packing tape marked my hours as I prepared to leave France for the last time. Just as I’d settled into the idyllic farmhouse I’d visited for the last three years, life did what it always does. Things changed. The wheel of dharma turned and I had to leave.
I would teach my last online class for the month on Saturday night, then board my flight on Sunday. Sofia, my dear friend and assistant, was all set to handle switchboard logistics from her home in Denver, should the French internet prove wobbly, as it so often did.
For years, I’d dreamed of a home like this. A simple place in the country with beautiful trees, plenty of land, and big sky. A place of low population density where artisanal wine, butter, and cheese flowed freely and my nearest neighbors were cows, horses, red deer, hares, and the odd fox now and then. This roost was ruled by His Majesty, Louis, the brown tabby in residence. Officially known as a European Tigre by breed, he certainly acted the part. Though the hares generally outran him, and foxes generally outfoxed him, he did keep voles at bay.
As I boxed up the last of my belongings, sorting and bagging what was to go to charity, laundering and folding what went into my cases, I felt something pull me to…
