Would They? He Would

The Quiet has become my dear friend
Stillness, her sister and beloved companion
They share with me stories and messages
Wisdom and whimsy flowing through their canyons

One day, as we looked up at the sky
At the telltale clouds of Nahum
My friends said, "What happens when you die?"
A thought I mulled over in the darkness of my room

What, indeed, would happen when I die?
(Funnily enough, I'm not even asking why)

Would my father cry out in anguish, mourn as Job had?
Would my mother be hysterical and inconsolable and mad?
Would my sister try to comfort them, care for them even through her own pain?
Would my brother isolate himself for some sense of calm he could feign?

Would friends shed their own tears over hopes unmet?
Would they say their prayers then tell others in hope, "Do not fret"?
Would dear mentors remember the girl who tried her best?
Would they, instead, recall the times she fumbled in her quest?

Would acquaintances ask their hows and whys and feel sorry?
Would they share their own anecdotes, from short and sweet to funny?
Would my enemies rejoice, build a pyre to celebrate?
Would they, perhaps, feel remorse and curse it for coming too late?

Would my love feel shattered and break into millions of already-broken pieces?
Would he pour out a torrent for the love he says he misses?
Would my love speak of the girl who loved him with equal parts abandon and fear?
Would he tell of the girl who left with reasons that were to him unclear?

"The possibilities," Quiet interrupted, "go on for miles ahead."
"But look!" Stillness chimed in. "Do you see Who stands at the end?"

I knew right then that the miles wouldn't seem as toilsome, as long
If I just remember that He would be waiting
That He would say, "My dear, you are finally home . . ."
"My child, my Jecca, you are right where you belong."