STYX

Among those of us waiting on the river bank one was a drunken woman. The rest of us understood but she was still confused, demanding of us: “Where am I? Why am I here?”

We ignored her, as if she wasn’t there at all.

Finally the ferryman emerged from the mist poling his raft. He pushed up to the small pier and motioned to us. We crowded onto the raft but the woman hesitated.

“Step on, sister,” the ferryman said. “From my raft no one falls off.”

How we envied her lingering doubt.

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