What is Death?

One of the earliest themes I struggled with as a writer was Death.   I became a writer first to create a certain immortality for myself.  I thought that while I might not last, my words could and thus my memory, who I was and what I did would linger on.   Death was an early enigma taken in the shape of my Grandfather Howard who passed away very suddenly when I was around five.  Until that point, I had no concept of such a thing, that life was fleeing, passing ever so swiftly by.   After that point, Death became a question, a certainty, that I sought to either avoid or understand - never between.

It wasn't until I was older that I began to grasp a different concept of death, and while I am still young, I still think sometimes of it in my thoughts and words.  One of my first forays to dealing with it was an old legend of a Phantom Train that carried the dead to the other side.   This Phantom Express was not some dark creature with cloak and scythe, it was a presence that possessed this train and simply did its duty.  When young children accidentally climbed aboard with their father, it took pity and let them go, and in turn, helped the father realize that he'd hung on for too long to the soul of his departed wife.

I think my favorite personification of death comes from the "Book Thief", wherein Death is the narrator.   He speaks of himself saying that he is haunted by humans.  He is gentle and kind, as much a part of life as the living.  Given his story and the story of the book takes place in World War II, Death is very busy, but the subject of him of that war is treated with a certain reverence that softens the persona. 

“His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do - the best ones. The ones who rise up and say "I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come." Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places.” 

I think this is the Death that is real and I would like to think that beyond the pale mists of Death is another world more beautiful than our own.  Perhaps it is Heaven, perhaps it is somewhere else, but those we love wait there for our reunion.  I would like to think and hope that someday I will see those faces again, but there's a long life to live. 

As Death said in the Book Theif, "“Even death has a heart.” 

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It came, like soft shadows.
Gentle as the cloud,
Breath cold, a winter's chill.

Softly it stepped, 
Eyes like stars,
To touch the skin
To grasp the heart.

Where did it lie,
This soul so gentle?
To whom does it belong?

None can say, 
For he cannot speak himself.
Known to all, yet none
have seen his face.

Only the passing soul,
grasped in gentle fingers,
gone beyond
into the veil of the unknown