Dear Death…
Hey, buddy. I was going to start this formally and follow a standard letter format, but honestly, I’ve known you for far too long to address you as any less than a best friend. So. Here goes.
Let’s start from the beginning, when you took everything I had. Not to be rude, but seriously. It was unnecessary and sort of gluttonous. Tilly was just a baby, and if you can come up with one reason why that’s fair, I’m all ears. Then Mum, then Dad. Great job. I drove myself up my first day of college. Happy?
With my family gone, I had to drown my grief in something. I could have gone down numerous roads that would all end in something worse than what I was going through, but I turned away from those. I chose photography. So thanks, I guess. You introduced me to my passion. I’m a bit famous, actually. Because of you. Taking pictures pulled me out of the dark and let me focus my lense on smaller details. I see things now that I never would have before you hit me, and even if they hurt, they’re important to know.
Then you took Jason’s mother, and left him with a father who wasn’t worth trash. No one should have to go through that, much less a kid. He’s still waiting, waiting for his father to show up on his birthday, year after year. He’s still saving up every penny to get a ticket and fly over to where the biennial postcards come from. He’s living a half-life, full of not knowing, and it’s killing him. But if you hadn’t taken his mother, I never would have met him. I know that’s a selfish price to pay, to justify what he’s going through, but thank you anyways.
There are more things you’ve done, and I could go on and on about how unfair it was, about how much you hurt me. But that’s not why we’re here. That’s not why I’m writing.
So let’s get down to business. It’s been hard for me to face the truth as of late, but I can’t keep denying the inevitable. I’m old. I’m tired. My lungs are worn out and my heart’s pushed itself to its limit. I’m not going to hold on much longer. They say that you have to give a dying man something to wake up for every morning, or else he won’t. Simple as that. I can’t say that exactly true in my case.
I know the world will be fine without me, chugging along. People will miss me, and feel the same pain I felt when I lost my loved ones, but if their experience is any like mine, my absence will help them more than it’ll hurt them. I hope they’ll find things they love in my nonattendance. I only wish there was some way I could watch them afterwards, see what the grief has caused them to find.
Here we are, then. You and I. I feel like I know you all too well, even though we’ve never met. You’ve been surrounding me all my life, your scorch marks ever-present in every disaster I’ve faced. I’ve carefully watched your footprints leading away from the crime scenes of my losses, but I’ve never followed them far enough to finally reach your home. And yet here we are, standing parallel, so close to union. You’re the final question and the final answer, the last problem, the last solution. And all I can say, after all these years of waiting, is I’m not scared.
I’m a bit excited, really, delving into the unknown one more time. I bet you don’t like that I’m not responding like most, but what can you do? You’re not a mystery anymore, you’re not terrifying. I know you too well for that. So come on, then. Hit me with your best shot. I’m waiting. Yes, this is a challenge. One last game, some friendly competition.
I owe you a soul, don’t I? Come and get it.
Until then, goodbye, old friend.
Signed, Jimmy Samson