Letter To My Death

Dear Death,

Or should I say, my death? I suppose it is pretentious of me, but given the circumstances of our encounter, you may decide to indulge me.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. Or rather, about me when we finally get to meet.

Will I cry? Certainly. I like to think they’ll be happy tears, like when three generations of my family sang happy birthday to me or when my thoughts go to Tita and the contraband donuts we munched on hiding from Mom.

Will I have regrets? Probably. Outside of sappy songs and grandiose poems, who dies without them? Any life worth living has those, for to live, you close a door every time. Wondering is only natural.

Will I wish I had done things differently? I won’t. Not this version of myself, at least, for if I had chosen a different path, I wouldn't be me. How would other I address you? Can’t help but wonder.

Will I feel alone? Whether it is just the two of us in the room worries me less. I’ve loved. I’ve loved so much that the bones hurt, and people have loved me back. At least, I hope they had, even if for a brief moment. Yet, we come into the world alone. It is only reasonable that we leave it the same way. I’ll hold on to every single person that touched my life until enough neurons stop firing and I start to lose myself, but that last threshold just you and I will cross.

Will I be at peace? Content? Happy? Ecstatic to have lived, but ok with the notion that it is time to go?

Will I leave too soon? Too young? With a full life ahead of me that I never got to experience? It may sound callous, but I don’t think it will make a difference to me. Is an instant any more or less cherishable than a hundred years? Both sound better than the alternative, for I cannot fathom a worse hell than living forever and watching infinity dull away the miracle of life.

Will people mourn me? It will probably be tragic for some. Every death is. We all know it too well. I can only hope with every bit of my imperfect heart that they’ll find peace. Or solace. I don’t wish them not to feel pain, for without pain, did we really experience joy? Love?

We are because we must end. Our atoms will go on forever, but this permutation, this instant, this laugh, this tear, they will never be again.

Will I try to stall you? You can bet I will. Any animal would. Who am I to act differently? It’ll make no difference. I fancy myself going out with dignity, but then again, maybe your sense of humor will dictate differently.

Death is easy. It is the living that have it hard.

Will we share a drink? I hope that you’ll humor me.

I’ll tell you all about the life that I’m leaving behind. The highs and lows. My proudest moments and the ones that shame me the most. I’ll blame the alcohol and share every single secret, even the ones that I had forgotten.

We’ll relive it all.

I’ll cry, and laugh, and curse. It’ll be my strongest moment, and also my most vulnerable. And as you start making the bed for the both of us, I’ll sip the last bit of wine, marveling at the realization that you, my silent friend, will be the only one that ever truly knew me.

No masks. There will be no need anymore.

Then, we’ll kiss goodnight.

Yes. I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately. You’ll have to forgive me for not saying that I look forward to meeting you, but when we do, I’ll be ready.

Until then.

Love,

Red