A Lifetime of Death.

Death was standing in the sitting room when I got home.

 

It is difficult to ignore the presence of someone like that, but I tried my best; leaving It there and climbing the steps to the bedroom knowing it would not, could not follow. I had made these steps myself - I cannot call them a staircase - from the parts of an old oak barrel that once held wine made by the farmer and postman that lived here long before me. 

This room was once where the animals slept, now I do.

I slept deeply but not soundly, it is troubling when Death is so close and my dreams were vivid; someone sent me a magazine and when I unwrapped it I saw that it contained a tribute to an old friend who had died, each page carried photos of them from their youth. I awoke and knew I would have to talk to my visitor.

Death was still standing in the sitting room, perhaps I should have offered a chair but instead I decided to stand myself and observe. It was looking at a piano that in fact is not there, a grand piano, probably a Steinway.

Death walked to the piano slowly, like someone crossing a vast continent; its footsteps were ponderous, almost hesitant as if it was uncertain that it was the right thing to do. Death was leaning its weight on someone’ shoulder. Someone who was invisible to the eye but clearly present. 

I found myself wondering how old death was, why It was here and why on earth it wanted to play the piano, but of course the piano was not on earth. The piano sat in the middle of continents that had not yet collided and formed solid mass. Death sat down at the piano, awkward with the movement and settled its hands on the white keys. Its skin was the colour of thunder and dry like pages from a book on a shelf in an ancient library that no one ever visits; they played one note alone.

The note reverberated across ages and a cello took up the note that was then echoed by a flute far away and the music lifted from where I was standing, out into the morning night that lay, star-abundant, outside whatever inside remained.

I stood in awe, in fear and in waiting; I decided to speak.

“I was scared of you once.”

“You don’t need to be, “Death replied.

“I know that now”.

“I am early”

“Why are you here?” I asked, “you don’t need to be.”

“This is my home.”

“This is myhome,” I said.

“When I got home to the place of my birth, there was no welcome.” 

Death was not listening to me and It started singing.

The voice was deep, clearer than I had anticipated, and It sang in a language that I did not recognize. It sounded ancient, it sounded wise and it filled the room that was no longer there.

A mountain top.

A cape.

An empty shore.

The song ended and the piano slowly ebbed into life. The music was slow, deep in the black notes and sounded a lament.

A regret.

A long forgotten love.

Some might have described it as soulful, others as liturgical but for me it was none of these.

It was a lullaby.

 

Death stopped and there was silence.

“There is always silence”, Death spoke with the same voice with which It sang but each sentence echoed afterward in a whisper.

“When I came home, there was no welcome, only silence”.

“Silence….Silence”.

The word softly echoed away into silence.

“Everything has its own silence” It continued. ‘Every space, every object, everything. Stop sometimes and listen.’

Death turned to me and I saw the colour of its eyes. I could not name colours for what I saw there , but I could hear their silence.

“Yes, even eyes hold a silence, you are beginning to understand”.

“Ha! “ My laughter was involuntarily, perhaps a release from the spell in which we were held, the two of us. “I think I understand very little, but I have long stopped trying’

“It is better to live than to understand”.

“Can’t we do both?” I asked.

“Trying to understand everything will kill you, learn better to marvel”.

“Are you depressed?” I asked.

Death stood and turned, held its two hands together as if in prayer, bowed Its head gently and slowly shuffled to the front door. 

Art Death’s Door It stepped aside from the arm that was supporting and walked the last two or three steps unaided.

And was gone.

 

All day I was uneasy, I kept looking over my shoulder until finally it was just a shadow that I carried with me. It affected my mood, I argued with my neighbours and loved one.

I was petty in my actions, vengeful in my ways.

Unable to shake the feeling of despair I returned to my bed and slept, longer than ever before.

In the night I woke and looked out the window across the valley, it was heavy with mist and the first lights of day; I slept again.

And I dreamed of you, we were writing a book together.

I woke, refreshed, climbed down those steps made so long ago and went to the kitchen. I took fresh marjoram from the bush that grows outside, planted from a cutting from my Grandmother’s garden - a country, a sea and a time away – made an infusion, went outside onto the terrace where the sun was struggling to rise.

And wrote this.

 

Why?

I don’t know.

 

Mine is not to wonder why.

 

 

That night a storm broke over the mountains that rise to the south, lightning etched into the darkness; to the west the sky turned the colour of fire, thunder rolled over the wooded valley. A wind suddenly raged amongst the oak trees and acorns tumbled onto the food waiting to be eaten; courgettes gathered from the garden, grilled slowly in hot oil, fresh tomatoes from the vine laid lovingly on slices of mozzarella, sardines torn ceremonially from their tin and a bottle of wine made from grapes harvested with the first frosts.

We sat, I was no longer alone, until the rain came and drove us to the shelter of our bed, again climbing the steps of oak and aged wine.

 

I dreamed, but I do not remember what and I woke early; the storm had passed, leaving a wild violence in its wake. Stepping over fallen branches that surrounded the bed I tip toed over the wet grass to the road that runs from the side of the old barn down to the metal bridge in the valley. Turning into the woods I followed the track under the fallen tree to where the wild buddleias grow. I pushed through brambles emboldened by the storm until I could smell the ripening fruit and hear the rattle of the stream. The path arrived at the water’s edge, where I stripped and then bathed, allowing the morning chill to cover me and letting the current take me, before swimming back . I dried myself with my clothes and walked back. A cat was waiting , a cat that I did not know though I had seen it once before. I stopped and we greeted each other.

 

In the kitchen I made more rosemary tea, and sat outside on the terrace; the day was really only just beginning.

 

A lifetime too.