A Letter to Death

Prologue

It was a cloudy Sunday afternoon. I stood by the kitchen island, messing with the new espresso machine that I bought last week. For some reason, the portafilter was refusing to twist out of the group head. I was very close to committing a hate crime toward it.

There are, I imagine, more dignified ways to spend what might unknowingly be the final Sunday

afternoon of one’s life. Wrestling an espresso machine was apparently going to be mine.

As I was wrestling with the machine, a loud thud startled me.

I looked toward the origin of the sound and saw an ugly owl stuck between the half-open window and

the ledge.

“What in the heck?”

I walked over and pulled the owl off the window. It jumped around me for a little bit. Maybe it was

saying hi. Who knows.

It certainly didn’t look grateful. If anything, it looked offended that I had interrupted whatever

magnificent entrance it had attempted.

I noticed a scroll of some kind tied to its leg.

“What—”

I carefully removed it from its leg.

The owl looked around, then looked at me.

I looked at it.

A few seconds of silence went by.

There are certain moments in life when two living creatures share an understanding without words. This

was not one of those moments. I had absolutely no idea what this bird wanted from me.

It finally flapped its wings and flew away, leaving me alone in my kitchen with the scroll in my hands,

confused.

“I knew it. I’m a wizard, and I’m getting into Hogwarts.”

I mumbled as I opened the scroll.

“Good afternoon. I hope this letter finds you well. Please note that your death will take place exactly 24

hours from now. You will not be able to leave the premises, nor will you be able to contact anyone. Please

know that your death will be absolutely painless. My condolences. From: Death.”

I stood in silence.

“What?”

I chuckled.

“That’s a very dedicated prank right there, lol.”

I read it again. Then once more, slower this time, as though perhaps the words might rearrange

themselves into something less inconvenient.

They did not.

I went to throw the letter away, but right before it reached the trash can, it dissolved in midair, like when

Thanos snapped his fingers.

“What in the—”

I stumbled backward, hitting my heel on the bar stool.

“Dang it, that hurts.”

Apparently impending death did not exempt me from minor household injuries. Lovely.

I moved back onto the couch.

“Okay. That was pretty cool.”

I got back up, searching for my phone. I grabbed it from the top of the espresso machine. I scrambled to

send a text to my love.

Nothing.

No typical “Delivered” that I was used to. No little blue line at the top of the screen struggling to reach

the end.

I stared at the message for longer than I should have.

It was strange how quickly one tiny missing word could make the room feel colder.

“Now, okay. That’s different.”

I tried calling her.

Nothing.

Call failed.

I then tried to call another friend, and another, and another after that.

Still nothing.

“That’s not exactly funny anymore.”

The amusement drained out of me almost instantly.

There is a peculiar kind of terror in suddenly realizing that the people you love still exist somewhere

beyond the walls around you, living their ordinary lives, while you have somehow been removed from

them without warning.

I decided to call 911.

“Surely this will go through.”

Sure enough, it didn’t.

“Must be the reception.”

A remarkably stupid explanation, considering Death had apparently just sent an owl to my house, but

denial is not particularly famous for its logical consistency.

I headed for the door, tripping over everything on my way.

As I grabbed the doorknob, I froze.

Through the mosaic glass on the door, there was utter darkness outside.

Not nighttime. Not storm clouds. Not the dim gray of an overcast afternoon.

Nothing.

A darkness so complete that the world itself seemed to have been erased beyond the glass.

I tried to jiggle the doorknob.

Of course, nothing.

Exactly as it had been written in the letter.

I paced back to my armchair, soulless, my hands trembling.

I looked outside the window.

There it was.

Utter darkness.

My house was still my house. The furniture had not moved. The clocks still ticked. My coffee still sat

unfinished. Yet everything beyond those walls had vanished.

It was incredible how quickly familiar things could become frightening when you suddenly understood

that they might be the last things you would ever see.

A wave of anger and rage filled my spirit.

I jumped out of the chair, grabbed it, and launched it at the window.

Good news: my armchair remained intact.

Bad news: so did the window.

“Right. So this is it? This is how I will go out? Right.”

I stared at the perfectly unharmed window.

Twenty-four hours left to live, and apparently I had just attempted to murder one of my better pieces of

furniture.

I went back to my study.

Everything looked exactly the same, yet so different.

My fountain pen and parchment sat faithfully on my desk. The lamp was still dimmed. The pine scent

was still subtle, yet noticeable.

Things I had seen hundreds of times suddenly demanded my attention.

The warm pool of light beneath the lamp. The faint scratch marks on the desk. The way the fountain pen

rested beside the parchment as though patiently waiting for me. The soft pine fragrance I ordinarily

barely noticed.

Nothing had changed.

Except that now everything had an ending.

“Right. I suppose people typically write a farewell letter.”

I picked up my pen and parchment and let my thoughts run free.

The Letter

To: Death

Good afternoon, Mr./Mrs. Death.

I hope this letter finds you well, unlike I apparently will be by sundown tomorrow.

I would like to file a formal request for delay.

I am unsure what department handles these matters, but considering you managed to suspend

telecommunications, seal my house, erase the exterior world, and employ an owl as a courier, I am

assuming this will eventually reach the appropriate desk.

Monday afternoon doesn’t quite work for me, as I have preplanned a trip to the DMV to renew my tag.

You know how painful it is to schedule with the DMV.

Surely even Death understands that rescheduling a DMV appointment is an unreasonable burden. There

must be limits to cruelty.

Perhaps you accidentally sent this notice to the wrong address.

Although that doesn’t seem quite likely, judging by the phone and apparently the bloody black hole

outside.

Anyway, back to the delay request.

Saturday night would be considerably better.

Even though, in reality, I should be looking at sometime after the year 2064.

But whatever.

This is my note, then.

Although, while we are negotiating, I feel obliged to point out that twenty-four hours is atrocious notice.

Employers generally provide more warning before terminating someone.

You know, I’ve experienced many things, none quite as bizarre as this.

I’ve always sort of thought of myself as an optimistic pessimist.

Always thinking life will take a turn for the worse, people will leave, relationships will end.

I learned early that expecting disappointment made disappointment easier to survive. Or at least that

was what I told myself. If I expected people to leave, perhaps I could pretend it hurt less when they did.

If I expected something good to end, maybe I would never be surprised by the ending.

But then I found God.

He has walked with me steadily and faithfully through the calming stream and roaring river, the quiet

mornings and restless nights, the highest of the mountains and the lowest of the valleys.

There were moments when I could feel Him beside me and moments when faith meant continuing to

walk despite feeling nothing at all.

There were prayers answered the way I hoped, prayers answered in ways I did not understand, and

prayers whose answers I may never know in this life.

I thank Him for changing me for the better.

Still not perfect, but better.

Much better than I once was, though admittedly the standard was not always particularly heroic.

I rest peacefully knowing that I have my salvation in Christ.

Though I didn’t quite expect a death notice.

I thought it would be a bit more sudden...

Maybe that is what frightened me most.

Not death itself.

The waiting.

Knowing exactly how much sand remained in the hourglass and being forced to watch every grain fall.

My love.

I’m more concerned about her than anything else.

Of all the thoughts fighting for space inside my head, hers was the one that refused to leave.

She really is amazing.

Like something I never thought I deserved.

Sometimes I still look at her and wonder how someone like her somehow became part of my ordinary

life.

There are people you meet and appreciate. There are people you love. And then there are those rare

people who quietly rearrange the shape of your world until you can barely remember what it looked like

before them.

Seems that I can’t keep that promise of time.

That promise of more.

That hurts more than dying.

My love.

If you can ever see this, please know how deeply sorry I am.

That I couldn’t be there for you longer.

Couldn’t love you longer.

Have more ordinary afternoons.

Have more romantic nights.

I am sorry for every future memory I promised you without realizing how fragile promises about time

really are.

I am sorry for every morning I assumed would come simply because all the others had.

I am sorry for every time I said “later” as though later were something I owned.

You’re so much more than my lover, my best friend.

No.

You complete me.

You make me whole.

You are part of my being.

Somewhere along the way, loving you stopped feeling like something I did and became something that

simply existed inside me.

You became woven into the way I imagined tomorrow.

When I thought about places I wanted to see, I imagined seeing them with you. When I thought about

quiet nights, I imagined you somewhere nearby. When I thought about growing older, somehow you

were always there.

I’m so deeply sorry for this.

I love you so much.

I love you so, so much.

More than I have probably ever managed to explain correctly.

More than all the jokes and teasing and ordinary conversations ever managed to reveal.

You are my forever.

My baby, I love you.

Still yours.

Even now.

Especially now.

Mr./Mrs. Death, I don’t know if you had a childhood or a regular human life.

But anyway.

My parents are absolutely fantastic.

They weren’t perfect.

They still piss me off regularly, but they did the absolute best they could when it came to me.

I’m forever grateful.

Funny how the things that annoy you about people become strangely precious when you are confronted

with the possibility of never experiencing them again.

I would happily tolerate another hundred arguments. Another hundred unwanted pieces of advice.

Another hundred moments of pretending not to listen while secretly remembering every word.

They gave me what they could. They worried about me. They sacrificed for me in ways I probably still

don’t completely understand.

And suddenly twenty-four hours feels insultingly short for everything I still owe them.

I’m...

I’m not ready yet.

There.

I said it.

For all the philosophy, all the faith, all the jokes about Death’s administrative procedures—

I am not ready.

I still need to hang out with my friends... Segers, you know, amazing and wonderful people.

They have been amazing and all.

There’s also Matt, a great man whom I’m grateful for.

There are still conversations we haven’t had. Stupid jokes we haven’t made. Dinners we haven’t eaten.

Stories that haven’t happened yet.

There should be more nights where nobody realizes how late it has gotten because everyone is too busy

talking.

More completely ordinary memories that feel insignificant while they happen and priceless once they are

gone.

I still have so many more things I want to do.

So much more I’m looking forward to.

And strangely, sitting here now, the things I want are not particularly grand.

I am not begging for fame.

I am not begging for unimaginable wealth.

I am not asking you to make my name immortal.

I just want more life.

Please.

Give me a few more years.

Or even months.

I will take weeks.

Days.

If that’s too much to ask, just give me a proper opportunity to say goodbye.

To those I love.

To those I care about.

Surely that isn’t too unreasonable.

Please.

Let me see my love once more.

Let me kiss her once more.

Tell her how much I love her once more.

Tell her that I’m sorry for anything stupid that I said or did.

Tell her how much I love her—

please.

Let me memorize her face knowing that I am memorizing it.

Let me hear her voice once more without rushing the conversation.

Let me hold her knowing that this time I should pay attention to everything—the warmth, the

breathing, the ridiculous little things that ordinarily disappear into routine.

Please, let me see my baby once more.

Please.

I...

I really thought I wouldn’t fear death.

You know.

I thought that I wouldn’t care.

I thought faith would make me fearless.

Maybe I misunderstood.

Maybe believing that something comes after this does not mean I have to stop loving what is here.

God, I was wrong.

What if no one remembers me?

What if they don’t care?

What if my name becomes something people hesitate before saying because it hurts too much?

What if photographs slowly become the only evidence that I was ever standing beside them?

What if years pass, and they remember me less clearly?

Please...

Not yet.

Do you ever feel?

Anything?

Pain?

Joy?

Anything?

Does anyone—

Did anyone ever feel ready?

You have watched everyone eventually come to you.

Kings. Children. Cowards. Heroes. People surrounded by families. People completely alone.

Surely one of them must have asked you the same question.

Was anyone ready?

You have no idea what it means to be missed, do you?

Must be depressing.

Though I’d trade anything not to have to be missed.

Because being missed means leaving someone behind.

And perhaps that is what I am actually afraid of.

Not being dead.

Leaving.

Please.

Not yet.

One more ordinary day.

One more dinner.

One more hug.

One more kiss.

One more word.

One more look.

One more completely insignificant afternoon where absolutely nothing important happens.

One more drive where I complain about traffic.

One more meal where someone steals food from my plate.

One more conversation that goes nowhere.

One more morning where I wake up irritated because the alarm went off too early.

I never realized how beautiful ordinary life was until you threatened to take it from me.

Please—

please...

I don’t want immortality.

Enough is good for me.

I don’t need forever.

Forever sounds exhausting anyway.

Please—

enough time to do all those things—

please.

Enough time to love people better than I have.

Enough time to stop treating tomorrow like a guarantee.

Enough time to say the things I keep assuming I will eventually get around to saying.

Please consider this letter.

Yours...

Isolde Volkenskaya.

Epilogue

I was lost in my thoughts.

Sitting at my desk.

Fearing.

Crying.

For a long time, I did nothing.

The room had become unbearably quiet.

There was no dramatic music. No ticking clock suddenly amplified by fate. Just the faint hum of the

house and my own breathing occasionally breaking apart whenever another wave of fear came over me.

I didn’t know how to send this thing out.

So, I went back into the kitchen. I then saw the opening in the window from that owl.

A very small gap that I couldn’t make larger.

Apparently Death could create an impenetrable supernatural barrier around my house but could not

account for poor window insulation.

So I tossed the letter out.

And as if today hadn’t been hard enough, the letter got stuck on the edge.

“NO!”

Of course.

Of course my final message to everyone I loved was going to die stuck in a window frame.

I tried to force the letter out with my fingers.

And then I heard the sound of wings flapping outside.

I looked up.

And there it was again.

That bloody ugly owl.

Looking at me through the window.

“What do you want?”

I yelled at it.

It looked at me.

Same expression as before.

Somehow judgmental despite being a bird.

And then it pulled my letter off the window and disappeared into the darkness.

I stood in awe.

For several seconds, I simply stared through the tiny opening.

The darkness swallowed the owl almost immediately.

Along with every word I had finally found the courage to write.

As I turned around from the window, a scroll appeared on my counter.

Of course I recognized it.

It was exactly the same as the first one I received.

“Oh gosh...

please.”

Suddenly I would have preferred the owl to come back and insult me personally.

I picked it up.

My hands trembling.

It read:

“I didn’t receive your response. I mean, I did, since it was addressed to me. But you didn’t write the letter to me. You wrote it to everyone else in your life. I must apologize. My owl seemed to have gotten lost and delivered the letter to the wrong address. So no, you will not die tomorrow. But let this experience be a reminder of why you want to live & live out your best life. — Death”

“?”

I stood in silence for a bit.

“???”

I read it again.

Then again.

Not because I didn’t understand the words.

Because somehow my mind refused to accept them.

“He did not just say that.”

I cried out loud.

Laughing.

Still mad, but more relieved than anything else.

My knees weakened beneath me, and I leaned against the counter.

I laughed until the laugh turned into crying, then cried until that somehow became laughter again.

Twenty-four hours ago—or rather, twenty minutes ago, though emotionally it felt closer to twenty years

—I had treated tomorrow like an ordinary possession.

Now Death had handed it back to me.

“Not like I can file a complaint, I guess.”

I looked toward the darkness outside.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, it began to change.

At first, there was only the faintest hint of gray. Then shapes returned. The outline of the yard. The

street. The neighboring houses. The sky.

The world had not changed.

But God, it looked beautiful.

A while later, after the emotions had settled, I sat down in my armchair.

The same armchair I had attempted to launch through the window earlier. It had survived Death

considerably better than I had.

I sat there quietly for a long time.

My phone buzzed on the table.

A completely ordinary notification.

Normally I might have ignored it.

This time I picked up the phone almost immediately.

The signal bars had returned.

The world was reachable again.

Her name was still there.

My parents were still there.

Segers was still there.

Matt was still there.

Everyone was still there.

And for one strange, impossible Sunday afternoon, I had been given the privilege of learning what their

absence would feel like without actually having to lose them.

I thought about the letter.

About everything I had written when I believed there would be no tomorrow.

How easily the truth had poured out when time became scarce.

How ridiculous it suddenly seemed that I had ever needed Death standing at my door before saying

those things.

Maybe that was the cruel joke.

Death had not taught me anything I didn’t already know.

He had merely taken away tomorrow long enough for me to understand today.

I sank deeper into the chair.

The espresso machine sat quietly across the room.

I looked at it.

It looked at me.

Well, technically it didn’t. It’s an espresso machine. But after the owl, I was prepared to entertain

possibilities.

I laughed to myself.

Then I looked toward the window, toward the ordinary afternoon that had somehow been returned to

me.

“Thanks, Death.”

I paused.

“Still hate your owl, though."