If I had forever

I became aware of death at a young age—not because of losing a close friend or family member, although, maybe the caterpillars we picked off the roses that my dad exterminated—you know I mean killed—did impact me with some form of finality and the fear of it. I can still see their wiggly black bodies with yellow stripes and how once dead, they seem to meld into a horrific oneness. Not the Oneness that we all hope for.

Please don’t judge my father too harshly. Mexico was a place where death seemed to constantly walk side-by-side with him. Maybe that’s why when someone died in my dreams it was always my dad. I’d wake up shaking and fearful, experiencing grief no five-year-old should be able to contain let alone manifest.

Day after day, I’d contemplated that each day could be The Last. My last. Maybe Mom wouldn’t return from the store, or Dad from a business trip. Then at about 11 or maybe 13, I got sick of that. I decided death would happen whether I worried or not, and so I let Death go. To go and do whatever they/she/he would do.

Needless to say, I might not have believed I’d get to this age, healthy with a healthy companion and beloved, and that my brother and sister would also be happy and well. And so if you ask me about having forever, I can’t really answer, because I’ve never believed I would.