Afterlife by Abigail Uhrick

Countless hours of television chatter come from86-year-old women who have witnessed that elusive "tunnel of light", come close to tagging death, drinking plant fertilizer thinking it to be their daily regulatory shake. The same is true of the five-offender arsonist, who after becoming trapped in his own bonfire, is revived by an enemy, now seen surrounded by the aura this piece (peace) of heaven has left laced on his lashes. I, too, have seen something. I ha ve been to a place. I think it was the third door to the right in the tunnel of light. It is a world where the fatally bashed, slit, blued, and bloodied di scover respite enought to chew spearmint. Where wounds fuse without sutures, and every body has returned to the pliable putty of a six-year-old. I saw my grandmother there (being of a more Romantic era, she died literally of a broken heart). Her face was smooth. She slicked one leg behind each ear and rolled around a sunny pasture like an egg, trying to topple little Johnny Kennedy's handstand.