I talked to the dead.
An initial lack of light to this poem.
Hardcore meditation was my life.
A list of things to live for.
Meditation topped the list.
With eyes closed and breathing deep,
I saw my deceased grandmother
sitting in her neglected garden.
Meditating.
Grandma June’s long, silver hair hung down.
She never let this happen when she was alive.
Eyes closed and concentration intense.
“Do you want to answer any questions, Grandma?”
Her head swayed some more.
She walked into the cabin.
The vision faded.
Another vision while I meditated.
Grandpa Tom, who died when I was six.
I was a little girl again.
We floated on armchairs in outer space.
I did the same thing I did with Grandma June.
Questions. So many questions.
Grandpa Tom laughed.
In my face.
It was the funniest thing to him.
I couldn’t fathom why.
This was a matter of life and death.
And now I’m diagnosed with schizophrenia.
I don’t meditate anymore, scared of what I might see.
Back then, tripping balls with my eyes closed
is all I could do to cope.
I want to start my meditation practice back up,
but this time I’ll just breathe.
Ignore the visions because
breathing feels that damn good.
I hear that’s how we live.