It was a quiet night when Death slipped into the old man\u2019s room to carry him away. The man was laying in his bed, fighting for every breath, gripping the sheets as if that would cement his hold on mortality as well. The man\u2019s wife was asleep in the armchair by his bed, her reading glasses low on her nose and his favorite book open on her lap from where she\u2019d fallen asleep reading it to him.\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n
He saw the hooded figure slip in through the door, closed but for a small crack, pushing it open with a whisper. A primal sense of fear gripped the man, and he heard pleading words begin to rush through his lips.\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI can\u2019t go, not yet.\u201d The man begged. \u201cI haven\u2019t done enough, I haven\u2019t seen enough, I\u2019m not ready.\u201d\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Why aren\u2019t you ready? <\/em>The words that came in reply were felt rather than heard, a low, gentle rumble that sounded almost like a distant waterfall to the ailing man\u2019s ears.\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI never got to travel\u2026 I always wanted to take her to Paris, and I haven\u2019t been able to do that.\u201d\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n Would your time with her have been any different if you had?\u202f<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n The man was overcome for a moment by visions of their life together, a small house in the countryside, their children, now grown and spread across the land, home for holidays and special occasions now. He remembered their first date just like he remembered their last, and he realized that when he thought about her, the focus of his memories was her face, her smile, her laugh\u2026 her. The background faded to nothingness. It didn\u2019t matter where he went or what he saw. Every sight paled in comparison to her.\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut I haven\u2019t made enough money. My children, what will they have when I am gone?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Will money be the true source of their loss?<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n In truth, the man worried that he would be forgotten. That his children would tell stories of him to their children, until his grandchildren got too old to care and the stories fell to silence. He was terrified of a future in which he did not exist, even as a memory.\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n What comfort is it to be remembered by those who care nothing for you and know nothing about you? Isn\u2019t it more to have been loved by those closest to your heart?<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n The words loosened a knot in the old man\u2019s chest, eliciting a string of memories tugged through his mind\u2019s eye like a line of photographs across a tile floor. His daughter\u2019s first birthday, his son\u2019s state football game, the letter they gave him on his fiftieth birthday, and the smiles on their faces whenever they came home. He wouldn\u2019t trade those moments for the world, and they would always mean more to him than any platitude of living through stories.\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n But still, the man was afraid.\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat comes after?\u201d He whispered to the dark, picturing an eternity of darkness and nothing, or even worse, a forever of apathetic awareness. \u201cWhat happens when I come with you?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Death seemed to waver in amusement as it drifted closer, bringing a warmth and a heaviness in its\u2019 presence.\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s not a question I can answer in a way you will understand. Nonetheless, as you had a beginning, so you must have an end. You must gather the courage of your forefathers and follow in their footsteps.\u202f<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n It wasn\u2019t the answer the man had always been hoping for. His wife was a devout Christian, and had dragged him every Sunday to church with the stubbornness he\u2019d loved her for. He\u2019d enjoyed the routine and the community of the church. But did he really believe in life everlasting? Was that something that he wanted? <\/p>\n\n\n\n Was it something he was willing to admit might not exist? <\/p>\n\n\n\n These were heavy questions to have on his mind, moments away from the last breath, the last page of his story, the washing of his sandcastle from the beach. But they were questions he still had, nonetheless.\u202f <\/p>\n\n\n\n Does it matter? <\/em>Death asked, in a gentle voice. Does it truly matter if I am everlasting rest, or a path to eternal life, a cycle to a new beginning, or simply the end of your piece of forever? I am inevitable, and I am not cruel. I am the path all must walk, the final destination that all shall reach in the end. You have had your life, and you have lived it well. Now it is time to take courage, take my hand, and find the answers for yourself.\u202f<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n The man released his grip on the bed, and felt a deep sense of peace, down through his bones into the very core of himself. He reached out with one hand, so that the tip of his finger kissed Death\u2019s palm. <\/p>\n\n\n\n And then the man\u2019s mortal story ended. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" By: Hannah Sloan It was a quiet night when Death slipped into the old man\u2019s room to carry him away. The man was laying in his bed, fighting for every breath, gripping the sheets as if that would cement his hold on mortality as well. The man\u2019s wife was asleep in the armchair by his… <\/p>\n