Death's Narrative

I wait on the edge of a sidewalk, sitting on a bench watching the street. Night swept the city in its dark cape, but it did not matter in the city. It is always bright either night or day. 

People pass by me, living their clueless lives as I am amongst them. I wait patiently. Just like the darkness, people are afraid of me. There are others who accept me long before their end comes. But I don’t think they understand that death and life are different. Life is temporary, death is permanent. 

Down the street, a red car drives to the stoplight in front of me. I can see the driver through the tinted windows. Laura Smith, a thirty-five-year-old woman sat in the driver’s seat, a latent seatbelt sat at her side. She waited for the light to turn green as a white light beamed in her face as her eyes became distracted. 

Another vehicle comes forward, its driver pressing his weight on the gas pedal. His mind swarming with blinding lights of intoxication and the reek of alcohol floated in toxic clouds. This alcoholic vessel is heading straight for the red car.  

As soon as the woman looks up into her mirror, she sees the truck coming quickly. Her body tenses, but knows it is too late. In a sudden flash that could be missed in a blink of an eye, the truck smashes into the woman and whirled into a wall of a building. Onlookers pulled out their mobile devices and gaspes in shock. 

I stand, grab my scythe, and go to work. I walk through the damage and past all of the flames to the hood of the car. The impact had flung her forward. Her head collided with the windshield and then with the asphalt street. I show my empathy silently.

Some reach the end of the tunnel too soon, while others seem to last for an eternity. The woman was only thirty-five years old to reach the end of her tunnel.  

I put my arms underneath her. But it is not her body I carry, it is an illuminescent figure of her true self. A soul is what makes a person, a body is just a shell.

My arms may be made of bone, but my cradles are soft. The soul laid limp in my arms, lost without a body to go back to.  

The truck stays dead in the brick wall. At least, not entirely dead. The man is injured, but he can be fixed. I know. The man who sits in his own intoxication having no idea what he has done, gets to live. Life is unfair, and so is death. In this way, I suppose we are the same. 

While I carry this woman to her afterlife, I reach into her memories.  A soul is what makes a person, and memories is what makes a soul. The stairway to heaven is a long one, so I entertain myself with seeing human lives. It usually ends in sympathy and tears if I have some to shed. 

This woman was married, and was on her way to meet one of her sons at the airport. Through her life, I see empty loss, cold divorces, and shattered heartbreaks. Some moments through the mist result in bright happiness, fortunate surprises, and summer lullabies in a beautiful tune. 

It is a terrible tragedy. 

Humans are daffodils. They are planted for most of a full year. Then they sprout in a beautiful bloom. They are so delicate, yet so hard to pull out of the ground. It is only when a chilly wind comes to their stems that they wilt and they die. 

A simple and short life. 

But humans love to make the short life seem longer by being unsatisfied with a simple stitch and creates an intricate design. Mostly, these designs are woven with bad thread. Hopefully, these woven blankets can meet their peaceful rest. 

I reach to the top of the stairs to the bright lights of heaven. A realm to which I can not go to. I feel the soul wriggling in my arms, not wanting to depart from her loved ones. I apologize silently. She calms herself and I feel the acceptance flow a relieving river throughout her body. I leave her soul floating as she accepts the blinding light of the afterlife.

And that is my life and my death. My work and my importance. Humans are daffodils, strangely. Living in full bloom and dying too soon.