Their Pleas

They pluck my sleeve, tug my hand, pull my hair. They do not kneel to kiss my hem. No, it’s not like that but they want tokens. Again, not souvenirs but something small and useful, something that will help them out after life, maybe in an underworld. They need a sighted guide to lead them to the river, and they need a remnant of the old world as they embark for the older world, the one that has existed since the first grievous death. They need to feel they still can touch and still be touched, as once they did and were, and one would have to be a cold, uncaring woman to deny their pleas: a woman with a bulletproof  heart, without a memory of life on earth.