Mortality

I first noticed him when I was 10 years old. My family’s dog had just died, and my dad buried her in the back yard. We were standing around the makeshift grave, and my mom was giving a eulogy that I’m sure was beautiful, but I can’t remember it. What I do remember is looking through teary eyes and noticing him looking on from a distance. My vision was blurred, but I could just make out the figure of a man, or something like a man, in dark robes. I couldn’t see a face, but I knew he was watching me.

I didn’t see him very often in my childhood or even in my teenage years. I was too busy with school and girls to worry about him. Sometimes I would go months or years without ever seeing him. But out of the blue, I would remember. Against my better judgment, I would scan my surroundings looking for him, hoping I wouldn’t find him. But he was always there. He would be unmoving, half obscured by some distant tree or building, but still watching. In those days he kept his distance.

The closest I ever saw him get to me was when I was in my twenties. I can’t remember the exact year now, but I know that I was a young man and I was still living in the city. I was walking to work, and I was in a hurry. You know how whenever you’re in a hurry you seem to catch every possible light and get stuck behind the slowest people. So anyway, I was waiting at a crosswalk, and it felt like it was taking a lifetime for the light to turn. I was staring hard at the crosswalk sign, and as soon as I saw that little walking man light up I took off. But I didn’t get far. I had just taken one step into the street when a car, obviously in more of a hurry than I was, blew past the red light. The car was just inches away from me. One more step and I would have been a goner. It all happened so fast, but I swear I caught the briefest glimpse of something in the car window. I saw a reflection of the robed man standing just behind me. His hand was on my shoulder.

The only time I actually saw him move was on my 40th birthday. It was a memorable one. My wife threw me a “surprise” party even though I had known about it for weeks. I let her have her fun though. She got my brother to take me out to a movie while she prepared everything at the house. When we got back, I pretended not to notice all of my friend’s cars parked along the street. I opened the door, and I was greeted by the shouting of all my closest friends and family. To this day it still makes me smile. It wasn’t until my wife brought out the cake and everyone started singing “Happy Birthday” that I noticed him. He was standing in the entrance to the hallway, just behind my mother who was busy singing the same song as everyone else. I couldn’t hear the song, because I was too focused on him. As I watched, he took one heavy footstep towards me.

Over the years, he seemed to get closer every time I noticed him until eventually he was always in the same room as me. He just stands in the corner and watches. It doesn’t bother me anymore though. It’s almost comforting to always have company like this. Speaking of company, my daughter came to see me today. She was trying to convince me to go live at that nursing home down the road. I told her I am good right where I am. The strangest thing happened though. The whole time she was talking to me, she kept glancing back over her shoulder at him. She looked scared. I wonder how long ago she first noticed him.

My daughter just left. She seemed worried about something. Always worrying that one, just like her mom. I don’t know what there is to be worried about though. I’m comfortable right here in my own house, in my favorite chair. I was just about to close my eyes for an evening nap, when he started walking towards me. It only took him a few steps and then he was standing right in front of me. He looked at me and held out his hand. From that close I could finally see his face under the hood. It was the face of my father, my mother, my wife, my brother, and my friends. It seemed to change the longer I looked. It was beautiful. He smiled as I took his hand.