A Perfect Day
Conversations with the Reaper
M. Stanford Hillenbrand
He came when I least expected him, like a thief in the night. I woke from my troubled slumber at the first sound of his intrusion and heard his slow shuffle outside my room. Trembling, I pressed myself against the door as I imagined the specter lurking on the other side; a fearsome shadow cloaked in a black seamless robe of linen, a faceless hood gaping black and deep as a throat. Then came the cold, rap of his fleshless knuckles against my door. With my faltering strength I braced myself against it to keep him from entering. "What do you want?" I asked.
His voice came strong but arid like a desert wind. "I do not answer questions for which the answer is known, my friend."
"You call me friend?" I answered bitterly.
"I will call you what you will," he replied. "It matters not, nor changes my evening’s errand."
"Then you come for me?"
He did not reply.
"Do not call me friend," I said. "I did not invite you nor do I welcome you. Go away."
"But you did invite me."
"When did I invite you?"
"The day you were born our meeting was agreed upon. It was part of the accord."
"But I wasn’t expecting you."
"How foolish," he replied, "to not expect the inevitable."
"…at least not at this time."
"I need no appointment. I can come at any time," he said, "Ask the winds that blow which leaf will be the next to go. But in turn they all must fall. It is the way of the tree."
"I have no desire to see you."
He seemed to sigh. "You make me feel unwelcome, friend. But it is only the hour, for not all turn me away. The old and lonely pray for me. The miserable seek me out. In time, if you had more time, even you would wish to know me. But you disappoint me, friend."
"In what?"
"In that you have forgotten our agreement. And that you have not learned to receive me and other lessons of life required of all men."
"I have learned of life," I replied, "but not of death."
"Then you have not learned of life," came the voice. "For we are brothers. Life is only understood through death. How often is it heard by those who brush against me that only then did they know life? It is cliché, is it not?’
I could not answer.
"There is much you do not know," he said, "But sometimes even I am patient and tonight I have time, so I will talk before we go. I yearn for conversation and too often it does not greet me. So ask me what you will, I will answer honestly, for I am the most honest of all visitors."
"If you are honest why are you cloaked? And why do you conceal your face?"
"I do not conceal myself. You are the tailor of the cloak I wear, not I. In truth I am naked and everywhere."
"Then tell me, cruel visitor, why do I fear you so?"
"Cruel? You insult me so. But still I will answer. You fear me, in part, because all humanity fears the unknown. But that is only a portion of the truth. It is not because you do not know me but because you do not know yourself. If you knew who you really are you would see me for who I am."
"And who is that?"
"The usher and not the destination."
I thought about his words. "Still, I fear you."
"Is it because I loose the grips to the trifles to which you cling and open your eyes to the illusion of possession, even that of your own mortality? Have you lived your life as the fools who spend their time acquiring what they must leave behind? For life was not given to acquire but to become."
"I should have known this sooner, I said. "I am not ready for you."
"Alas, too often I hear that refrain, but it is wasted breath, for I, my friend, am ready for you."
Despite my efforts the door began to open. I shielded my eyes from my horrible caller.
"Look upon me," he said, "Remove the myth from your mind and see me for whom I truly am, and know yourself. Ask your own soul if, in my presence, it will extinguish like a candle and it will answer ‘nay’".
Slowly I looked up. My visitor looked different than I had imagined. He wore not black capes but vibrant robes of green. His face was not cruel nor were his hands as chalk, for they were not of bone but covered with rings. In his eyes was truth and I knew that what he said was honest. He said to me, "Yes, you remember now. Every beginning springs from another beginning’s end. It is the greatest of all human paradoxes, death gives birth to life anew."
"I will come with you," I said.
"Yes, you will. But only for a way. I will leave you at the door. The journey is yours alone. I am not the destination."
|
