Death is something far off, far away

It happens to great uncles; other people’s grandparents, and occasionally to pets who have lived long happy lives

Death is a stranger, to me

I hear whispers of him

I have heard of his impact, devastation, mark left behind on those living

Death has not visited anyone I have loved, really loved; he has threatened to take away, come close enough to see his shadow pass- but prayer prevailed at that time

I have known of people who aided death in his job- they did his job for them- and death was merely there to catch them in his arms- a greater sadness than letting him decide when to take them

Death does not pass the halls of my home, my families homes, he is not a visitor of any familiarity

Death is a misunderstood character- carrying out orders, meaning no ill will, an employee of nature.

I’m sure he feels sadness and indignance when people hurry his processes by violence, homicides, taking away life before he was expecting to scoop them up.

Death probably has different sized baskets to carry different sized people-

and keeps blankets, towels, pillows on hand for a comfortable journey

Death says “don’t wish me to visit anyone. I come when I have to.” And I’m sure he would prefer to stay home, listening to Metallica, writing poetry.

Death is a stranger to me, but I’m sure he will visit one day, and I won’t be afraid when he does.