I think I've stared death down several times now.
Once, when I was impatient and tried to jaywalk across a busy road.
Once, when I choked on a piece of cauliflower for a bit too long.
Once, when I was born barely breathing.
I'd like to think death's familiar with me. But I wonder, what is death? Is it a man cloaked in a black robe, dragging a scythe behind himself, making ugly screeching noises against the pavements? Maybe he's joyous in our death, a hunt for a prize, much like we hunt others. Will he smile at me and swiftly take me, as I was a worthy hunt skilled to evade him thrice, or am I just making his job harder?
Or is death a mother, who'll cradle us in our last moments, tell us we did so well, and it's time to give our aching bodies a rest? She shall wipe our tears, kiss our foreheads and rub circles into our backs, as we tell her our fears, scared of death, scared of the unknown?
What if death is a warrior, who'll laugh heartily when walking in, offer us a drink and request our tales? They wonder what fight we lost, and they cheer when we win, cry with us when we lose and regard us with nothing but honour and respect. A death is seen as the fight of a glorious battle, and we all deserve the respect of having fought the glorious battle of life.
I wonder if death fights for you, it tries to save you, feeds you hope and determination, and hands you the drive to keep going. It loves those who fight ardently, it loves doctors, scientists, believers and those who believe nothing can hurt them. Those who pour out every piece of brilliance and determination and wit and love to keep going, just because we're entertainment and it's inevitable.
But I would much rather believe all deaths hate when someone does the job for them, because who is a human to take on the role of ending a life, one that deserves so much time and consequence. Death abhors war because it can't give the time that each soul deserves to tell their story. Death hopes we love each other, and protect each other, so when it comes, our story gets the right ending. They mourn the people they could never talk to or applaud or criticise.
I don't know who I'll see when I die, but it will be the loveliest afterlife I know.
