Mr. Death – Watercolor - 8 x 11 inches.
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?”
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For more thoughts and images:
My book ☛ Double Vision, Waking Dreams My website ☛ JohnMichaelKeating.com