Death spoke to me, in the humid stillness of a summer night. He brushed my cheek as a sullen breeze and whispered coquettishly,
“Are you ready?”
The barely perceptible words permeated through the clutter of every day happenings that jumbled and shifted within my head. The question seeped and soaked through the smell of frying bacon, the caresses I had slipped through my children’s hair, the rushing anxiety of being late for work, the annoyance of shattering my coffee carafe. The question stood stark and unrelated to all of these things.
“It will be when it will be,” I answered, wondering at the anniversary of my death that I had passed over all of these years; the date that I would only fleetingly be aware of or perhaps not at all.
“What will you be remembered for?” He pushed the other thoughts away and stood before me to gain my full attention, rustling the leaves of the nearby trees with his haunting breath.
I mused for a moment and said, “I want to be remembered for kindness, a playful spirit, and hopefully for words I have written.”
“Most will be lost and forgotten. It is the nature of death.” He smiled then.
“I know,” I replied, “but I will try until it is time.”
“Fair enough. I will be seeing you,” he promised and slipped away leaving a foreign shadow over the plans of my upcoming day; of preparing school lunches, sorting through email, grocery shopping, balancing my checkbook, and trying to get past writer’s block on the sequel to my book.
And life goes on until it doesn’t.