The Blue Box

The taxi draws up at an industrial blue box. Out of place in this country of mountains, clean air and cuckoo clocks. We are greeted. They call themselves escorts. Not your usual kind. We are here to be processed. I am here – to support – to bear witness. This is your choice.
Papers to sign, always papers to sign. I see you have brought your father’s fountain pen. Blue black ink flows freely from the nib. They ask are you sure? They need you to be sure.

Down in one – don’t sip it – that’s no good. This first to lay a resting place for the second. Then we wait. Now the hemlock, again down in one. Swiss chocolate to mask the taste. My mask must not slip – no fissures to show – yet. Praline is your choice.

I sit beside you now, stroke your hand. I remember when you held my hand to cross the road, picked me up when I fell off my bike, consoled me when my lover dumped me. This is my choice.

The lid of the blue box is open now, your spirit free. You made your choice.