By Peter Christensen

Op-Ed Commentary

Last night I dreamt that I was standing at the gates to heaven. I had been there earlier, punched in my password. The gates had swung open but just as I was going to enter, I remembered I had not turned off the tap that was watering the garden  A small misdemeanour in the grand scheme of sin and forgiveness but none the less important as we had spent so much time nurturing seedlings, building raised beds and fencing out deer.

After addressing this earthly omission, I stood at the gates again. The number and letter pad hovered in the heavenly mist outside the gates asking me to re-submit my email address and password. I poked in my password; the pad was unable to ‘confirm.’ Had I forgotten to capitalize the first letter? Not included a symbol? Entered a space in the wrong place?

I tried again and was unconfirmed. If I did not get my next try right, I would have to reset my password, that would mean I would need my phone and my little black book in which I dutifully recorded passwords. Both had dissolved as I rose above the earthly quagmire of letters and numbers.

I stared at the heavenly keypad trying to remember the correct sequence of letters, caps, symbols and numbers. Easy to remember passwords like the name of my favourite pack horse or pet had not been considered secure and long ago been rejected.

Eventually a random set of capitalized letters, numbers and symbols had been supplied, sent to my phone, all of which I had dutifully written down in my little black book and on the back of my hand. I had correctly surmised that my phone and little black book would not penetrate the ether.

What to do? The earthly ink on my hand had been washed away when I had returned to disconnect the hose leading to the garden!

Would I be stuck forever in the wavering mist outside the gates to heaven trying to remember the correct sequence of letters and numbers that Bill Gates had supplied so that my dwindling pension could not be scammed by a post-modern five-year-old who had been crunching algorithms since before emerging from his mother’s womb? Was this purgatory?

With all the facial recognition software available one would think that a face in front of a camera would do for identification? Afterall, my bank relied on it. But then when I look in the mirror, I hardly recognize myself! (Isn’t aging wonderful?)

The other day while checking out the new gigantic Dollar Store I thought I recognized a person I had not seen for many years standing in the dog toy isle sorting stuffed rabbits. At least I thought it was her, we had both aged, a lot.  Doubt descended! Was this my old friend from years ago?

There was a time when I would have gone up to this person and inquired if she was who I thought she was, but these days with random thievery targeting seniors in small-town malls and ‘floor-crossers’ switching political parties at the drop of hat in the House of Commons, well, people can’t be trusted. Walking up to someone without introduction could be taken as an offence. Next thing I would find myself being hustled out of the building by double agent sales clerk security agents, photographed and put on a wanted list.

Down below, in the darkening mists of earthly confusion, the gates of hell stood wide open. There were no guards and no keypads demanding passwords. All were welcome.

– Peter Christensen is a Columbia Valley based writer and poet.

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