I don't remember when I first met death.
Could it have been that Sunday afternoon
in second grade? The unsuspecting adult
entered boldly to my room. I hear
the pop and feel the panic still -- my baby
gerbil, blind and naked, not yet two
weeks old, crushed into the wooden floor
beside my sliding closet door. The grown-ups
tried to make it all ok, to make the
terror go away, but never could.
That can't be it -- I knew my cold companion
prior to that day. When I was three
or four, I used to cry for her, to plead
that she would let me play in her dusty gray
home. My panicked mother would come rushing
to my room while I wailed. "Don't talk
like that!" she'd shout angrily, or so
it seemed to me. Now I think I saw
some things too clearly for the older mind
to comprehend. Reality is cruel.
I never wanted to grow up. I saw
the pain of life, futility and empty
days, like I could gaze into the world
my parents tried so hard to hide. I felt
their sorrow, saw their struggle, and, unwitting,
snuck a taste of things too sober for
my years. A child should play, not live in fear
of never waking, friends and family burned
to ashes by a Russian bomb or buried
in the basement by a violent storm.
But time and fate conspired against my wish.
My aging beard shows gray; my joints are growing
stiff. The grave and I have come in contact
many times; her cool hand has shaped
my life. With my father's death, she forced
me to grow up. With my friend's, she let
me live, showing me a path among
my fellow men. I do not rush to see
her, but I do not wait in fear. My time
to go is coming soon enough.
for now, I'm here.