Dear Death,
I hate you. I hate that you took my birth mother away from me. I hate that you stole her and snatched my oldest sister from me … my birth dad too. I was only a child, left alone in this world to figure out life without the people who had given me mine.
Did you have an obsession with me? You must have, right? I was only three when I first heard about you. I remember my parents rushing to the house across the street because you had come early in the morning to take an aunt I would soon forget. You continued to rear your elusive head every now and then, taking away uncles, aunts, cousins, friends. You are cruel. You never allowed me to see you inhabit these bodies; I only heard that you came, and then they were gone.
The first time I saw you inhabit a being was through an animal. A horse. My favorite animal. There had been an accident—a carriage flipped into a canal. I don’t remember what happened to the driver, but I remember the large animal lying sideways, bloodied, a pile of lifeless meat. I don’t know how old I was—maybe five—but I saw you then, didn’t I?
I wish you had faced me when you took my mom and sister. But no, you came in the form of an announcement. Miles away, you robbed me of a goodbye, stripped me of their comfort. Did you think about the impact? The trajectory you would set my life on? Let me tell you.
In a world where one finds safety in community, you taught me not to depend on one. You taught me to shrink myself, to become quieter, to avoid taking up space. You taught me how not to be a burden. With my mother gone and thrust upon extended family, I was a burden. You made me agreeable—a child quick to appease. A motherless child. You made me fiercely independent, someone who knows they have nobody. Thanks for that.
Dear Death, I am no longer a child. You know that. And though you took everything I had, Life has given me more! The husband of my dreams, and children of my own.
And yet, the problem with having so much love is that now I have so much to lose. So much love to lose.
I can’t lose them too! You can’t take them from me. The girl you taught not to need a soul by taking away the family she was born into now needs the family she has created. I foolishly yet bravely forgot the lesson you taught me at six years old. Dear Death, we understand each other. You know I’m scared, and I know you don’t care. Even so, I’m pleading with you.
Please let me love them. Please let me see old age in a way my mother never did. Allow my husband to fall in love with my wrinkles, to feel his fingers run through my gray hair. Allow me to witness the evolution of his shoulders—shoulders that will hunch in old age, burdened by the weight of a life well lived. Please, let my kids have their mom. Let me see them take flight, fall in love, live their dreams, and discover their purpose. Let me see them grow up. Let me see my grandchildren. Let us have each other. Please.
Dear Death, for you to win, my family doesn’t need to lose. You have won my respect. I revere you. I fear you. And to show you how much I fear you, I am going to do something bold. I am going to live! I am going to love deeply. I am going to laugh as much as I can. I am going to live out loud and reclaim the girl you scared away 30 years ago.
You have power. And so do I.
Dear Death, I invite you to watch me live.
Until we meet again.

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