"...ride"

Besides the caregiving for an elder dream. There was this.

I was burning the last of my possessions. The things that like barnacles have stuck to me. They burned. My books manuscripts burned. They curled turned to ash blew away.

These, and the trinkets I've carried through my life. They twisted bubbled melted. Became black smoke and vanished in the bright coals.

My parents were there. Well, their shadows were. 

Why, I don't know. They didn't speak they never do.

I fed the fire. Cleansed myself of my worldly parts. It was time. Shoved my hand into the fire. ...don't ask. It was cold. Burning ice. Dante wrote that hell is a cold place. The greater the sins the lower, and colder you go. Is this where my stuff went?  

Being mortal we're not so lucky. Me you, and all mortals. We vanish. Virus's great oaks lady bugs all of us go back to where we came from. Oblivion. The background aura of eternity...or at least that's how it looks. 

On the other hand there's them shadows of folks passed on. Every family has a story every person has an experience. No idea how that works. Hell of a ride.

Either way when you do good it's for its own sake. It 'is' its own reward like fortune cookies tell us. You none of us has an account in paradise where our good deeds accrue interest. We're spiritual paupers. I think we're supposed to be. So just be kind, and generous as best you can. Not for reward, but because we should.