Death Becomes Me
A Short Story
By: Lorelai Waka
I am walking through a field of green. My bare feet brush through blades of grass, each one bending to my weight as I walk towards my end. The time has come for me to lay my body down to rest, and my soul to fly to the heavens. But I am ready. I have always been ready. And there is no better time than the present to once again be reunited with death.
My family walks behind me. My children are here, and their children, and theirs as well. What a beautiful thing it is to be loved, I think, as my legacy follows me to the river, their forms all crimson blood, and alabaster bones. They trail me with their warm skin, and their beating hearts, and their expanding lungs, but above them, so slight but so powerful, their souls as well, shining rays of pink, and green, and blue, glide in a weightless dance through our procession. I smile to myself, knowing that, through all things, this life has been so full of laughter and prayer and love.
Reaching the edge of the field, a flowing river dances before me. The gurgle of clear water leaps over time-worn stones covered with slick algae. Even in this river, life persists. So do the trees, doing a happy jig and as I sit beneath them. They welcome me with open branches, patches of dusty blue sky playing peekaboo as they sway in the light breeze. I sit down, toes and heels and ankles submerged in the cool water, and I relax my body by the edge of the field. One by one, my family, my soul tribe, the ones who exist because I exist, form a circle around me. Look around, something tells me. Look at their faces. I oblige, turning my head from left to right and taking in the wonder of this scene. Everyone is smiling. My children look at me with unadulterated love in their eyes, my grandchildren sit by my body and place hands on my arms, run fingers through my hair. And my great grandchildren, such incredible young souls, full of vigor and laughter, run laps around each other and pluck wildflowers from the field to bring to me.
They are here for you, the wind whispers in my ear. This is your rite of passage, and they are here to bear witness to the beginning of your journey. I laugh quietly to myself, thankful that this is the lightest I have ever had to travel. Looking up to the sky, I see a condor circling. Its majestic wings beat in a rhythm carrying it in a sacred spiral above my head. Another condor joins the first, matching its rhythm and, as I watch, a swarm of birds forms over us. From the swirling circle, one condor leaves the pack and flies to the other side of the river. As it lands on the embankment, it transforms. Wings become arms, talons become feet, and feathers become a long black cape that pools neatly on the grass. Its head grows to fill the hood of the cape, and a long black beak extends from the darkness. He is here.
I look to my daughter, my firstborn, and she gives me one nod. She knows.
I lay eyes on the figure across the way once more. My father, my son, my lover. The Harbinger is his name. The Grim Reaper, as he is for everyone, but in the form of that which is mine. My old friend, I say to him. Come to visit once again. As impossible as it may seem, I can see him smile. He doesn’t move, but I can sense the gravity of his presence, and the pull of the darkness of which he is made. This time I am ready for you, I say. This time the journey is both of ours. He reaches out a hand to me, long black fingers trailing a sort of smoke through the air as he raises them towards me. I lie back.
And my family sits. Their bodies surround mine, imprints in the grass that will exist forever, even long after they have all moved on.
I close my eyes.
I am neither here, nor there. I am everywhere.
And again.
I am neither here, nor there. I am everywhere.
I am everywhere.
I hear a static that surrounds my head. It sounds like the rainforest, a busy city street, the laughter of a family gathering, the conversing of forest animals. And through that sound, a voice. Like angels singing. A melody so beautiful it cannot be described merely through human words. As the notes lilt around my head, the tune swells. With each crescendo, I feel myself float an inch, then two inches, then a foot out of my body. I am being pulled further and further, to the pulsing of a song that speaks to my soul.
I take one final breath, the air rushing into my lungs, expanding them to their absolute fullest: the breath of absoluteness. The air shakes as it leaves me, and with the sound of the death rattle, I am free. I am all colors, and light, and energy, and as I rise above myself, I float to the other side of the river. I float towards my destiny.
Death waits, his arm still outstretched to me, and as I approach, my hand connects with his. I land, feet in the grass, but this time, the grass does not bow to my weight. It stands straight and tall, swayed only by the breeze. We stand, hand in hand, and gaze with eyes made of galaxies at the beings across the water. They stand, one by one, and wave goodbye, kneeling next to my body and placing a kiss on my forehead. And I watch. With each kiss, my soul expands a little wider, grows a little taller, feels a little lighter. And the statue next to me, unmoving until now, turns its head to look at me. I have been waiting for you, he whispers. I smile, and as I turn my head to look into the darkness beneath his hood, I ascend.
We fly together.
Clouds part for us.
The sun shines on us.
Stars dance with us.
The moon sings to us.
He embraces me
and my soul bursts into a million butterflies.
