I had another visit from my friend the other day. You know the one that just after you have switched the light out after reading a chapter of your favourite author or perhaps even supping a little too much of your chosen tipple you sense their presence in the room.
He has been before, just sizing me up as it were. Luckily he hadn’t yet sucked the soul out of me and whisked me away to God knows where. He has merely checked me out and reminded me again of my mortality, which so many of us fail to comprehend.
He hadn’t said a word. So I started the conversation.
“Are you going to let me finish this book?”
He laughed in reply.
“Isn’t it normal to catch me unawares? Aren’t you supposed wield that scythe and toss me in that boat to cross the river Styx hopefully with a dollar in my pocket?”
He shook his hidden hooded head.
“Things are a bit slack after the busy Holiday season when things return to normal so I thought I would visit a few friends.”
“I am honoured Death. But I am sure you have another cunning reason for disturbing my sleep”.
He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed leaning his scythe up against the wall. I most have shown my concern at this as he then said. “It won’t scratch the paint, it is not really there”.
He just sat there and didn’t say a word. So I had to start the conversation.
“Why don’t you tell me what is troubling you?” I reached out and held his hand.
Now here is a funny thing, as I patted those bony digits I suddenly realised that it was not a man I was speaking to but a woman. Not only was it a much smaller hand than mine it was the feminine sigh of longing as I did so.
“It’s alright”, I crooned to her, “I understand. Woman is the one that brings forth life and you are the one that has to take it back afterwards”.
Now it was lucky that it was pitch dark as we talked on that January night, as I wasn’t able to see her cry. That wouldn’t have been normal would it?