As written by Madison Ave
I fine Italian suit and a reason to wear it,
A Humvee with a mountain bike on the rack, leather hiking shoes, standing the summit of a mountain, next to the behemoth, with a cup of hot coffee, warmed by my contentment.
A tall glass of white rum and a banana chair on a Central American beach, somewhere where the beer costs you a dollar a bottle and the children’s teeth are impossibly white, breakers off a distant reef and the alcohol doesn’t eat at your liver.
A living room looking out onto a mercurial lap pool, encased in slate, walls painted in colours that match, little white enamelled pots that hold ferns that only grow in an endangered forest, orchids on the skirtings, growing on the rich fertiliser of comfort.
A job that has me smiling at six in the morning and wide awake at midnight, discussing strategy with the perfect anatomical specimen sitting next to me over a glass table that has, through its bottom, a view of a fantastic city – a Tokyo, a Paris, a New York. A Master of the Universe. Mobile telephones and PDA’s. Finding a use for useless things.
A wife that preserves herself rather than dies. Thin neck and prominent décolletage at the age of 50, marvellously witty and a prodigiously moderate drinker, the flutter and kiss of cocktail parties and cold-to-the-touch evening dresses, sequins on more than her frocks, her eyes sparkle when she drinks more than two glasses of that fabulously expensive white wine. She stands next to me on the summits of mountains and plays tennis on the weekends with friends I don’t know. Our children are miniature versions of us. Cloning without the science and in accordance with the holy scriptures of all religions. They are in Switzerland on scholarship. We write very nice letters to each other.
A retirement on a yacht, a motorised adventures on the high seas. A skull encased in distinguished grey, a face of wisdom underlined by a twenty year old jaw. Friends that smoke in smoking parlours and drink imported cognac without lung cancer or a ravaged heart. Looking back on a life well lived and earnings well earned. A life that reads like a Hardy Boys adventure and a pamphlet for responsible living. Wise investments and prudent avoidance, an abstinence from undesirables and young women; quick money and the blatantly criminal.
Death without pain and without the need to confess. Surrounded by those you love and those who made you money. Plush pillows and whispered talk. A house shrouded in respectful silence so I can think my last thoughts in peace. A Bible in hand and contacts in all the right places. A long history of philanthropy and distance from the needy.
You float into the ether and walk towards the light.
To be born again.
What can heaven be if not reincarnation?