We are Family, Death and I

His pale blond hair glinted in the impossibly bright sunlight. I noticed that his Osh-Kosh overalls sagged a bit in the seat. From the sidewalk, I watched his chubby fingers reach for the doorknob. A breeze caught his hair, gently tousling the curls at the nape of his neck. He turned and smiled an angelic smile, his blue eyes like ice. It sent a chill right through me.

I pulled my sweater tighter around my body. He pushed open the worn white door and disappeared inside. As if in a trance, my feet carried me up the concrete stairs of the old porch. I gripped the rickety iron railing tightly at the top step. My breath came heavy and fast, my hands shook. “He is just a child, a baby.” I told myself. But I knew he was much more. An Angel of sorts, though not the sort of angel you want visiting you.

The door was open just an inch or two. I could hear the voice of the old women who lived inside. “Why, hello dear. Are you lost little boy?” I pushed the door open with my foot just enough to see inside. The woman was hunched over a walker; her white hair seemed like a cloud of curls perched on top of her head. He was there, smiling silently. She prattled on in her high pitched granny voice. “My, but it’s been a while since I’ve had visitors. I bet I have a cookie for you. What’s your name sweetheart? Can you tell me?” He said nothing; only that smile.

She moved slowly, creeping along as if her arthritic legs couldn't bend, shuffling her feet across the worn out linoleum floor. She paused with her walker mid-step, as if something had just occurred to her. “Oh.” She said; the falsetto dropped from her voice. “You aren’t here for a cookie.” I'm always amazed that they know who, or what, he is. She made her way to an old lazyboy chair that had lost its shape years ago. She lowered herself into it slowly and set the walker to the side. “Well, o.k. then.” She looked unsure for a moment but quickly shook it off. “No, I’m ready.” The Angel made his way over to the woman and climbed onto her lap.

I saw her smile sweetly at him and close her eyes. I heard her whisper a prayer as I let the door close.

I couldn’t watch. I heard the awful thud and shuffle of little feet. I stepped back on the porch as the door opened. He smiled his sweet smile at me, suddenly looking like any ordinary three year old. I glanced past him into the living room. I saw the old woman, slumped in her chair, her sticky sweet smile still present on her stony face. Were it not for the trail of blood rolling down her temple, I would have thought she was sleeping.

I took the Angel of Death by the hand as we walked down the walkway to the sidewalk, around the corner, through the city streets to our little blue house where our breakfast dishes were piled in the sink. With each step, the chill of death slipped further away. I busied my mind with mundane thoughts of chores and shopping lists, pushing the memory of the morning to the farthest reaches of my consciousness. I would not think of it again until he is called upon next.

He began to skip a little, swinging my hand as he went.

We are a family, Death and I.