It was a long expected reunion, between myself and death. We’re old compatriots, comrades, but not really friends. If you’re friends with death, that’s another world entirely. It’s like being sexually attracted to death. While I admit that it has an allure, death is rarely sexy, and even more rarely openly attractive. Rather it is an acquired taste. One of many of mine.
I knew it would return. Like a lover with low self esteem, death slinks back, ashamed to admit that it needs to associate. It comes in waves. Death of a family member with death of a pet, or beloved friend. Death of career along with death of hope. Death is many things, generous most of all. If pain is what you seek, death offers it in unlimited quantities.
So, the last few days death has been my house guest. It hovers over every conversation, implying a sense of finality. Who will be next? The anticipation is sickening. It won’t be me, death is having too much fun with me to dispose of me. It will be someone living life to the full, someone so vibrant that their death will shock and offend the senses.
I think that’s why I resist it. I’ll admit my lack of control over the waves of loss, but my hand will do kindness, even to the last. It toys with me, taunting me about who or what it might take next. That’s my role, I’m one of the few people that cohabitates with and associates with death. It’s not a position that I have any pride in, but it is a familiar identity, possibly the only thing that really sets me apart.