All categories - 25 June 2006

Death and the Old Lady
By
Jeffrey Buford Jr.















I don’t like waiting outside of emergency rooms. I’d rather stand alone, cold and exhausted, questioning my purpose in such a complex and divided world. I shelter the souls that move from one end of the tunnel to the other, and in some cases the elderly are more appreciative of my efforts, I never asked to take lives. I asked to watch over them. It stinks when you’re handed the rotten apple, and from time to time you’re expected to take a great big bite from that rotten apple. I used to listen to the wind. The rustling of the leaves and the bushes conjure incredibly powerful emotions that hide deep within the darkest places of the subconscious. Some people know me when they see me. However, others aren’t certain if I exist at all, and they somehow glance up from their tedious romance novels and stare blankly at nothing. I know you’ve done it before, we all have. I’m apart of a daydream; the long and silent breath one takes while waiting for the spirit to sing.
I see many things; some of those things would tarnish the relationship between man and the universe. The universe can only offer the human mind so much information before it collapses, and there are things in this universe, which fiddles with the human mind, and the human mind is like a decaying floorboard in an old house, if too much weight is put on its surface it’s likely to collapse. I see quite a bit of people, I don’t know how I find the time to do the things that I do, perhaps I am everywhere all at once, like omnipresent being who detests his ability to endure pain, and such pain is created by the sheer terror of reinventing one’s self. If I could change myself, if I could somehow rebuild my being, I’d shape a fragile heart with a mind of laughter and joy. I don’t care about the darkness, I stand amongst the graves while the sun slowly folds beneath the hills, and the shimmering light of the sun never ceases to calm the storm.
I remember one elderly lady who was dying of cancer, and she was dying alone. She didn’t have anyone around to make her laugh, and surely there wasn’t anyone around to help her walk to the bathroom. She was dying alone. While she waited in the waiting room, thumping through an old magazine with information that was outdated and meaningless, she saw me. I couldn’t believe the old woman with the long graying hair and the deep wrinkles, the woman with the crystal blue eyes and ghostly white skin. How could I have believed in her? By what force, whether it be on the earth or not, could have mustered the determination to assist me, to help me spare some resentful feelings? I do not know if such a force truly exits in this place we call earth. The lights in the waiting room began to flicker, shadows on the walls danced and moved across the ceiling, and eventually the shadows fell to the floor. The lights flickered because I was in the room; all of the lights seem to flicker when I come around. The elderly lady began to cough; she covered her mouth and leaned over to one side of the chair.
I stood there for a few moments, listening to the sounds of cancer, my eyes looking down upon a woman who was plagued by illness and depression. In the far corner of the room I stood waiting for the elderly woman to speak to me. At first I was cynical about the idea of humans sensing otherworldly beings. I don’t seriously think I’m otherworldly however I am fantastic and incomprehensible in every single way. I heard the sounds of laughter, the doctor opened up the door.
“It’ll be awhile, Mrs. Anderson,” he said, slowly closing the door.
Mrs. Anderson did not care if her doctor waited all afternoon to see her. She pulled a picture of her husband out from her purse; she stared at the picture, as if she had never seen him before. Mrs. Anderson started crying; her gentle sobs made the waiting room shrink. I knew what kind of pain she was in, the pain of not caring anymore. She wanted to be released from the world, and she didn’t mind leaving right then and there in Dr. Rosedale’s office. She’d miss her poodle outside in the car; he made good company after her husband died.
“Going to stand there all day?” said Mrs. Anderson. “You should know I don’t have much company.”
“You can see me?”
“Don’t be so foolish, I can see you. I always know when you’re around, that way I can pick my nose.”
“You’re funny!”
“I’d like to think so but I’m too old to care about what’s funny.”
I sat down beside Mrs. Anderson, I admired the wrinkles on her hands, and they were life’s way of telling a story. The wrinkles on her hands told a long story, a story about love and friends. Most of her friends were already gone.
“I need a smoke,” whispered Mrs. Anderson. “I need one now!”
“Are you certain?”
She turned and looked at me like I was a silly little kid who had a tendency to make bad jokes.
“Yes! Why should you care anyway? I know a whole lot about you.”
“Like what?”
“I know that you’re a sneaky little fellow, and you kill people.”
“I don’t kill people.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes! People design their own fate most of the time, however there are some situations that require my assistance.”
“What kind of situations?”
I had never met an elderly lady who asked so many questions, after all I am Death and that makes for easy conversation.
“Very bad ones.”
“You’re mysterious.”
“I am.”
“I don’t think I like you.”
“Why?”
“You kill people for no good reason.”
“That’s not true, everything happens for a reason. There’s a very ancient balance in this world, and I help preserve that balance.”
“I don’t care about balance, I care about my prescription.”
“You could care less about that,” I said, smiling to myself.
“Whatever,” Mrs. Anderson mumbled. “You think you have me all figured out? Well, I’m a tough old cookie and I’m not ready to leave yet.”
“You’re lying.”
I heard a woman crying outside the waiting room, Mrs. Anderson heard the woman as well. I stood up and Mrs. Anderson asked me where I was going.
“I have some business to attend to,” I said, turning away from the woman with the graying hair and crystal blue eyes.
“You’re going to take someone,” said Mrs. Anderson. “It’s time for someone to go!”
I opened the waiting room door and I found a young pregnant woman on the ground sobbing, she didn’t know I was there of course. She had tears rolling down her angel face and she held her large round belly. For a moment, the pregnant woman looked up and stared at me.
“I don’t want to loose my baby,” said the pregnant woman.
Mrs. Anderson was standing near the door, listening to the pregnant woman. Mrs. Anderson had tears in her eyes; her tears belonged to the woman on the floor. Mrs. Anderson turned around and sat down in her chair and started to cough.
“Don’t even think about it!” shouted Mrs. Anderson. “Don’t take that child away.”
I was standing in the door, looking down at the weeping pregnant woman.
“It’s the unborn child’s time to go,” I said. “Remember, I told you about the balance in the world.”
“You can’t take that poor woman’s child.”
“I don’t have a choice, I can’t let the child live unless someone dies. With every new life there is death, and without death there is no life.”
“Take me,” said Mrs. Anderson. “I am ready to go!”
“Are you afraid?” I said.
“Just a little bit.”
When the young pregnant woman felt the baby kick she almost fainted, she sat there on the floor and saw a ghostly white lady walk down the hallway. It was the same lady who saved her child’s life.

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