The Queue
They say it comes in threes. As though Heaven keeps a curious appointment book, calling a singer, an actor, a senator, to stand in the same quiet line. One still hums familiar melodies. One remembers the weight of a stretcher, the flashing lights, the grateful tears. One can still quote speeches that stirred a nation. For a little while they compare notes. “How many knew your face?” “Millions.” “How many knew your heart?” Silence. The marble steps ahead care nothing for applause, poll numbers, or standing ovations. There are no VIP entrances. No reserved seating. Only names, spoken one at a time, by a Voice that has never once consulted a publicist. Perhaps that is the final mercy. We never choose who stands beside us on the last stairway. A queen may wait behind a carpenter. A comedian beside a soldier. A child before them all. And when the Gate opens, none of us enters as famous, only as known.