Do you hear him?
I called his name
Not in fear, rather
Like a friend, as a lover would
Just beyond my sight
In the shadows
But he never came
I wasn’t upset, but
It was confusing
He was there
He knew I was waiting
And he’s aware
Patience is not one of my virtues
But decidedly uncommunicative,
He only left me reason to
It wasn’t yet time
To accept the Reaper’s reprieve
I’d gotten so distracted
By the thought of dying
I’d forgotten all the living
I had to pull through
Enigmas and conflict and
He would come
He was there
He would come, as promised
Just after I’d done everything
I had to do
Is anyone ever really ready for Death?
What about the people who wait for him?
Do they fare better?
You know how there’s this standard sort of scene, in tv shows and movies, where the protagonist- and otherwise happy go lucky sort of girl or boy, sitting day dreaming in class- gets pulled out by the Principle or the police to inform them that there father was killed in an accident. Or found dead. Or, I don’t know, killed himself. Jumped off a bridge or lay on the tracks, something of that sort. That kid.
I always wanted to be that kid.
And my day dreams would often extend into how people would find my reaction bizarre, because I wasn’t going to crumple onto the floor, my world ripped apart by tragedy. Heck no. I’d probably give two warrior whoops and strip naked and do the conga in the school hall. Okay, maybe not strip naked, but I’d definitely do the conga. Nothing’s as celebratory as the boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-POP!
But obviously, that’s unreal. It’s the kind of daydream that’s on par with winning the Lotto or stumbling across a hidden treasure while drunkenly crab walking on the beach. Not at all plausible. So I switched to dreaming about me dying instead. Not by hand, mind you. I was too young to even understand the concept of suicide. It was just a scary thing that condemned you to the deepest pits of Hell instantly. Ohhh no, no, no. Even at eleven I was a smartypants. Something convenient and relatively painless, like a car hitting me or an earthquake or a heart attack while I slept- something that would do the job, end my misery, and Hello! Pearly gates! There was always the possibility that one day dad would just kill us all, but I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction.
All that childish (and adolescent, and early twenties) day dreaming aside, nothing prepared me for my sister suddenly coming out of her reverie while watching tv earlier today, and going, “I always wanted to be that girl. The one whose father dies.” And she proceeded to describe how she thought people would think she’s lost it, because of the trauma, because she’d definitely start laughing. And, well. Pretty much the same things I grew up wishing for.
It’s simultaneously horribly painful to hear your sister talk about her death so nonchalantly, and kind of darkly funny too. I mean, it’s almost the exact same words I used, that I used to think. Death just seems like the easiest way out.
To what end, neither of us know. No one does. But a way out.
It’s just that it took me a while to realize that.. Dying is inevitable. Living is painful and dying is inevitable. We might as well make the most of what we’ve been given. It’s not like I’ve learnt all the lessons… but definitely some. Love. Patience. Short but important (unimaginably important) bursts of feeling complete. Hope. Fulfillment. Pain. More patience. And more Love. I hope she learns more of them than I do. And I kinda hope I’m around to see her after she’s learned them.
Because, you know. I’m not waiting for Death, but he just might decide to drop by.
Love and light to you all