disturbia

i've often wondered what death would look like. i've run its images through my imagination thousands of times.

haven't we all?

when i was little, i used to think death as a huge monstrous beast. dark, hairy, menacing. growling through sharp teeth, its dank breath issuing poisonous fumes as its beady red eyes glowed at me in the dark. i imagined it would hide and scurry in the shadows, afraid of the light. a creature of the dark, a hound from hell. persephone's pet. i imagined it tore the soul of the very being it was sent to kill, shredding its victim's soul to pieces before it allowed the bits to drift down into the dark earth, where it would eventually be swallowed into a pit of wailing souls.

when i was able to read, i imagined death as the familiar hooded and cloaked figure, silent and grim, and as merciless as the scythe it wielded. this time, i imagined death walked among the living, neither seen or heard, but always felt. it did not fear sun or shade, but welcomed it. i figured it saw into every person it met, and it waited for a visit until the person was deemed to die.

as an adult, i began to think of death not as an enemy, but a partner of life. it was not merciless, but only performed a function that we all needed to go through. be it a death of a relationship, a pet, or even a flower. death is not grim. it is not a monster. death shakes our comfortable lives and allows us to remember that we must live as if we were about to die.

suddenly, i rethought all i knew about death yesterday. passing by a funeral procession, i strangely associated death as a woman. as a woman, death could be very heartbreakingly seductive and alluring. she could also be beautifully clothed in scorn and fury. yet she could also be merciful and excruciatingly kind as she tells brutal truths and menacing lies. doing all this while wearing 4-inch heels or fashionable flats.

she breathed life to her children,
for sisterhood among the brethren.
smooth and supple, her old skin could be.
aged and wise, her blind eyes will see.
her cold lips, luscious and red,
warmly speak of nothing but our death.

so, why not death as a woman?