For Ronnie Dizon
He knew he was dead as soon as he opened his eyes and saw, not his room, where he had lain down to nap, but a field of colors so intense they swirled together into an almost kaleidoscopic brightness. And the music. He was an accomplished musician and he could tell it wasn’t angelic, not in a Catholic way, but a glorious mixture of every tune that ever existed and would yet to be composed; the sound of the universe. And yet—. He strained to listen. It lacked something, one last thing to make it perfect. Keyboards, he thought. The kind he played. The kind that made him happy. He smiled, and walked towards the music.
