The voice will come from next to you, from someplace close but unfamiliar. "It will crash upon you like a wave," it will say, and it will be warm and deep and quivering against the bit that holds it. "There may be pain at first, yes, and fatigue. But these, like all things, shall fade."

The voice will seem to be behind you, then, and you will feel pushed forward, upward, rushing faster than you've moved before. Light will surround you, too bright for you to ever have looked at, but matched perfectly to your new eyes.

"It will roar in you like the north wind," the voice will say, "and in it you will know satiety without eating and drunkenness without drinking. In it will be stillness and silence, furious joy, and the cries of gulls before the storm."

The voice will stay with you as you climb, guiding you aloft, until the whole of Earth will spread before you. Thunder and rain will join with you, then, to be your breath and bear you on. Alate with wings of cloud and starry stuff, you will look upon the surface and its people and see how wonderful, how small, and how real they are. And you will look upon yourself and see how much more wonderful, and small, and real you have become.

Beyond this height and brighter light, none have brought report.

Death may be cruelly hard, but the afterward contains joys beyond mortal kenning. Delight now in the goodness you have brought and the goodness brought unto you. Take heart, gather your courage, and prepare to revel wildly in the life to come.

[Thank you, deeply, for the chance to give this gift.]