Cloistering

Cloistering
Image supplied by author.

You wheel yourself around here to numb your osteoarthritis. Upon hearing rhythmic chanting you pause. Those voices. Many yet one. Empty of ego, yet full of grace. And love. Enough to lift even your spirit. Looking down, you see silhouettes gathering around your wheelchair. Shapes of men, hooded, their habits alive with holes. Through these holes, brilliant beams of light burst. Gone is flesh. Gone is bone. These lights lead the way home. Shielding your eyes, you groan. Thumping back into your wheelchair, you moan.

“There you are, granddad! Come on, they’re serving cream teas in the gift shop now!”

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