“Just this here now… just this here now… just this, here now… just this, here, now,” she whispers the mantra into the incensed air. “Just this… here… now… only now is important, we only have this moment… just this, here now.”

A river rushes past my left ear, it bubbles and fades as distant bells grow closer, like the church on the hill on summer mornings, or cows in an Alpine meadow. The dog collapses into my side, he only lives for now; just this, here now. I screw his fur in my palm, and he throws his head back into my lap as I breathe in on, just this; and out on, here now. I imagine us in a painting, the title; Dying in ecstasy, sub-title; just this here now. My sister snores in the hospital bed as I lie on her ‘real’ bed, her old bed. She doesn’t lie on it anymore, not even in the daytime.

The phone rings in another room, I am allowed not to answer it. I have been given permission to be; just this here now. I don’t want this to end – I want to stay here on this bed, quiet and still with the sounds of bells like tiny cymbals, reminding me of an India I have never been to, and a rolling rumble that resonates deep in my stomach like distant thunder after the storm.

The back door slams. Someone shouts, “Hello!” I open my eyes and find I am back behind bars....