You know I’ve hated you for a very long time. But perhaps I pre-judged you.
We first met many, many years ago, but like most people, I can’t get you out of my mind. You scare me. You frighten me. And honestly, I have no desire to know you any better.
Six years ago you returned. It was early September, the Jewish Holidays nearly upon us. I learned later my father had called for you. Uncle Dieter said “Susan, your father told me he’s had enough.” After 94 remarkable years on this planet he was ready to go. How could this be? I still needed him.
But, as you are wont to do, Death, you showed up again despite my begging you to stay away. 3am, Dieter heard you wrestling with my father as he lay in the rented hospital bed plunked down squarely in the middle of our living room, the oriental carpet rolled up and the dark wooden floor looking especially naked while the bed seemingly floated in the huge expanse of the room. At one time this room had been used for celebration and ceremony. Now it was the waiting room for whatever comes after. Sitting in my father’s favorite chair, the antique, English wingback with its crewel, needle-work upholstery, just as he thought my father had drifted off to sleep and was about to get up, Dieter heard murmuring. In a faint, hoarse whisper, my father spoke, “Helen, I’m coming…” and by morning he was gone.
I’m next I suppose. Or maybe you’ll come for Elizabeth first. After all she’s five years older and has no children who may still need her. I guess if you give me a lot more time, Death, maybe then I’ll be ready. Maybe then I’ll be finished with the work I’ve yet to do… write a book, produce a documentary, see my children settled and happy.
So Death, maybe over the next 30 years I’ll learn not to be so afraid of you. And maybe, just maybe, by the time I get there, I’ll appreciate the work you do and even come to welcome you after all.
