Writer's View

Note: For those who feel helpless and hopeless, please know that I see you. I speak not without basis, but as someone who has been just as lost. So, I wrote something for you (and even for myself) as a reminder that peace can be found in living.

If death were to come looking for me, I’m certain it would be a gentle knock on my door. It won’t be a rushed rapping, for it knows not to rush nor to be uneasy.

Once I open the door, I’d let death in with a soft smile and widen the door to make sure it feels welcome to come in.

I’d usher death to the kitchen table and offer it a warm cup of coffee, or perhaps tea—depending on its preference. Certainly it hasn’t always felt welcome, but death and I are different; we’ve developed an unlikely camaraderie.

As we silently drink our sweet coffee, death wouldn’t dare ask questions as to how I’ve been, for it knows, more than anyone, just how much I have been through. We would simply sit in the most comfortable silence.

But in that eerie quiet, I will feel a twinge of sadness. A part of me will soon realize that what I want is for someone to ask, for someone to listen to the ache that caused death to visit. Ah, perhaps it wasn’t death whose arrival I awaited so calmly, but a friend to comfort me.

Soon when our cups are empty, death will push its chair backwards and would extend a hand toward me. Then, I will look at it once and I, too, will stand. I will shake death’s hand and lead it to the door. I would thank death for the visit, but say that it’s not yet time. I’d like to stay and have a few more cups of coffee.