"The Uninvited Guest"

A short story.

I’m returning to the page this morning with words that feel feeble.

In the face of loss, words can be both a great comfort and adversary. Hearing the right words can bring much-needed light into a darkened room. Hearing the wrong thing can feel like salt on an open wound.

But as with everything in my life, I find that writing is a necessary part of working through difficult things. Grief is no exception to the rule.

The short story below is simply what flowed out of me. I pray that it provides you with comfort, should you be needing some today.

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Death has arrived, uninvited, on my door. He comes with no discernible motives or intentions. I let him in because I have no choice.

I serve up hot drinks to welcome our new guest. Death's coffee goes cold next to six empty mugs. Time goes wobbly, and the afternoon visit turns into six long weeks of unforeseen hosting.

We spend the time trying to decode death's language. He speaks in his own curious way, an ancient tongue made up of silences and phantom wails. The detective work gives us something to do, something to pull our focus and keep time ticking forward. Before long, we are fluent.

In the home, emotions flit between fits of sorrow and laughter. You never know how close tragedy lies to comedy until you see them both draped upon Death, a bicolored coat of richest hue. Somehow, it suits him. We all try the cloak on for size.

Eventually, we realize that Death is no guest at all. He is the newest addition to the family, come to stay.

This epiphany is met with varying reactions. After all, he is no one's first pick of family member. The stairwell whispers with accusations of him being cold, unfeeling, and unwanted. But he does not leave, and we have no power to throw him out.

So we help Death get comfortable.

At mealtimes, we serve up a platter of memories. Fruits of joy, cheeses of time-aged gratitude, breads of leavened affection. Under a strict diet of remembrance, Death grows warmer. His edges soften. He no longer sucks the breath out of the room when he walks in. He no longer stops time in its tracks, though he can still slow things down to a leisurely pulse. Gradually, we coax Death into a rhythm that resembles living.

In teaching Death how to live, we become experts in living ourselves. No longer do the daisies go un-adored, or the lazy afternoons overlooked. Every meal prepared, dish washed, bath drawn, and errand run becomes a textbook chapter on Life Lived Large. Every hug becomes more practiced and complete, every 'I love you' more enunciated.

Death, seeing how things changed after his arrival, thinks that he was the professor of these lessons. In truth, it was all latent wisdom held safely within ourselves, waiting to be unlocked.

Regardless, Death notes the shift in our attitudes, and decides we no longer need him so close at hand. He leaves the house, returning to his natural posture of nomadically sojourning the earth. He still visits on birthdays, and holidays, and every now and then at random. But we know now how to include him at the table, and his existence is not quite so devastating as it once was.

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For Andrew.

"What is grief, if not love persevering?"

—quote from WandaVision