Long months of living in Spain led me to imagine that Death is Feminine: La Muerte, twin sister of La Vida. What a surprise to dream one night that Death has a husband.
You and I first met each other
in the house of Death. At the
time he was not at home.We knew his house is never
far away from wherever
we happen to find ourselves.
In this case, his cottage was
almost hidden in a cluster
of leafless maple trees.Light seeped into every
empty room. We couldn’t find
a toothbrush, or a light bulb,
or a stick of furniture,
not even a roll of toilet paper.I held you close to kiss
you, but you said, “No.”
I kissed you anyway. You said,
“Yes, yes.” We pressed
into each other and only
then felt the presence of the
owner of the house.He was metallic, as gray
as clouds in January, as
immobile as a sculpture
of Tutankhamen on his throne.“Mr. Death,“we asked,
“why don’t you allow
yourself a more stylish
coat of paint? Would
basic black be a cliché?“And those little shoes. Who
shines them for you? Please
forgive us, Sir, we were so
absorbed in discovering each
other we forgot you arrived
to terminate our lives.”The house’s roof and walls
suddenly evaporated and we
found ourselves in rain and
darkness, pressed together,
like a pair of maple leaves,
swept away in a storm
with a thousand other leaves.Since then I’ve tried to find
Death’s home and you, who
kissed me, but after many
years I’ve not found either.Perhaps one day, another
storm will blow us back
into the house and we two
leaves will be pressed
together in a folder in the cabinet.“A last question, Mr. Death:
when you close the drawer on
what had been our lives would
you please shut it on us gently?”
