* An essay inspired by the struggles of our MPS II community and the loss of the boys we love so dearly
Death is My Neighbor
He comes a knockin’ every so often. Not yet at my house, but I hear his slow, rhythmic knock nonetheless.
The rap, rap, rap of hard knuckles echo on weathered oak. The creak of hinges that wish to stay closed to the wraith visitor that no one wants to entertain.
He doesn’t bring gifts or goodies in outstretched arms. He brings sorrow and tears and years of longing for the one that he spirits away.
His basket of goodies is filled with tombstones. Of the now and the past. For children last year and years to come.
Yes, Death is my neighbor.
The neighbor I avoid but cannot cause to move away. The neighbor who comes to visit me someday.
I close my drapes and refuse to watch him visit my street. One by one he knocks and speaks. And streaks of tears are left in his wake.
My door stays closed.
Were I to move across the miles, my neighbor would follow me. I merely hide behind heavy drapes avoiding dark eyes as I peer in fear at his task on the stoop of one I know.
Open the door, open the drapes, I whisper to me, hiding my face.
Do not live in fear.
Death is my neighbor. He is always here.