I found myself, late last night, beneath the street light – the one under which the man had placed his brown work shoes as he floated away into the night sky with outstretched arms.
I stood there looking up at the light as a fine drizzle fell, the tiny drops like a million dust motes lit up by the orange glow, being drawn to the wet earth by the ageless pull of gravity. I saw nothing, heard no soft comforting voices calling out to me, felt no strong hands reaching down for me.
Water collected in my hair and began to run down my face, dripping from my chin. I could smell the ocean in the air and heard the distant dull crush of tide upon a dark and empty beach.
Later, as I lay in bed, I wondered if perhaps, the fine drizzle was not the man being delivered, returned back to this place, his soul scattered in a million tiny drops of water.