The Presents of Death

            It was a normal day. My alarm went off at 5:45, just as it always did. I dragged myself off of my big armchair and into the kitchen, blinking as I threw on the lights. The Kuerig was already on and ready for me to brew my coffee. I made my drink, grabbed an orange, and started changing my clothes. From the closet, I pulled out my red turtleneck with the white stripes – a favorite undershirt for ugly sweater parties – and a faded pair of blue jeans. My blue fleece gloves waited in the dryer, freshly cleaned from the night before. Donning them, as well as my beat-up high-tops, I noticed a succulent that I had forgotten to bring in to the flower shop. I picked it up, feeling strangely like it would be necessary to have this time, and ambled out of my flat.

            In the evening air of late August, the heat was almost unbearable. My long sleeves and pant legs clung to me nearly instantly in the humidity, and the stickiness of everything made it hard to breathe. But I didn’t mind. I knew the clothes would be necessary in a little while anyways, the way they always were. Some folks walking down the streets, either heading home from work or off to an early dinner, gave me odd stares, but I learned to ignore them long ago. I walked half a block up the road and plopped down on the bench at the bus stop.

            The 6:30 southbound bus was the most reliable thing in the whole city. If I ever wanted to go shopping in Market Square, or visit any of the art museums, I never trusted my travel to any other vehicle. Despite the traffic, despite the weather, and despite the general lethargic nature of bus drivers, this marvel of schedule keeping never missed a beat. Maybe the driver knew what happened in those back seats just as much as I did. Maybe he just actually put some effort into his job. Either way, it didn’t matter to me. I knew where I had to be, and I knew the bus would always be there too.

            When the bus came to my stop, precisely at its assigned time, I stepped on and shuffled to my normal seat; third row from the back, right next to the driver’s side window. I settled into the seat, smelling the familiar stench of public transportation. Tonight’s menu seemed to include hints of lamb and Vito’s pizza grease. The bus lurched forward and began it nightly route.

            The city streets and all their lights bounced by as we rolled along the busy streets. Nightclubs just opening their doors and business centers just closing theirs mixed in a living photograph of color and silence, its voice drowned out by the din of the engine. Landmarks all too familiar to me flew threw the view of the window. At 6:32 we passed the county library. At 6:38 the courthouse flashed its white, pillared façade. And at 6:45 we rolled to a stop in front of Stubb’s Coffee shop; the last stop before Its.

            6:50 rolled around and the bus noisily puttered to a stop outside Market Square. The doors opened at the front and, just like every night, the tall, hooded figure floated onboard. Instantly, the air in the bus dropped sharply in temperature and I could see my breath hanging in front of my face. I crossed my arms in a light embrace to keep warm and made room next to me. The dark figure made Its way down the aisle, the skeletal face under Its hood showing in flashes under the overhead lights. No other rider payed any mind to either the looming presence or the deep chill It brought. Gliding up to my row, Death took Its usual spot in the seat next to me.

            We rode in silence for some time, the rumbling of the engine the only sound I could hear. Finally, after driving four additional blocks, the Reaper reached out and took my gloved hand. Even through the extra layer, It was like an ice block pressing onto my skin. “Today was hard,” It whispered somberly. I looked over to It, seeing Its face turned down towards the faded carpet on the floor. I gently placed my other hand over Its boney one and listened to Its tale.

            It told me about all those It had ferried over to the other side today. Of course, there were always normal charges; elderly folks, terminally ill patients, accident victims. Those deaths were run-of-the-mill, nothing new for an immortal being to take care of. But today, something different happened. Today, the straw which broke the camel’s back had fallen. Today, it was a school, not a battlefield, where the bullets flew. Today, a lot of kids needed Its guidance across.

            Kids died all the time, It told me, but not like this. Famine, disease, car accidents; all of these were inevitable, outside the control of both man and god. But not violence; violence was within human nature, but also within our control. Whatever had made this mad man take the lives of those innocents, not even Death could say, but It knew it shouldn’t have happened. It did Its job, just like any other day, but It felt the pain and sorrow of each one of Its charges with even greater force than usual.

            I sat and listened intently to Death’s lament, holing Its hand the whole while. I don’t know how I came to be Its confidant, nor do I remember when it first started. Perhaps I was in the right (or wrong) place at the right (or wrong) time. Perhaps It had singled me out because I ran a flower shop, and It liked the idea of someone who makes a living from life. Or maybe It just thought I looked like someone who was willing to listen. No matter the reason, I took on the job, reluctantly at first, but quickly seeing just how much Death needed me.

            When Death finished describing Its day, we lapsed back into silence. What could I possibly say to console a being who shepherds lost souls on a daily basis? The moments grew uncomfortable as I sloshed through my own thoughts, trying to find the right words.

            Then, I suddenly remembered the succulent in my bag. I brought it out, its tiny golden bowl reflecting the buzzing lights, and offered it to Death. It looked curiously at the little plant, then delicately took hold of the bowl, being careful not to touch the leaves. Looking up at me, Its unchanging skull face still managed to convey a sense of inquisitiveness.

            “It’s a succulent plant.” I said. “They grow in deserts and arid climates. It won’t need too mush attention, just a little water every few weeks and some sunlight. Succulents are survivors; they can make it through even all kinds of adverse conditions. I think it’s a good match for you.”

            The Reaper’s grin seemed to grow into a full-blown smile, despite It not having muscles to actually move Its jaw. It placed the succulent into Its wide sleeve and looked past the chairs in front of It, never losing Its apparent smile. Keeping Its eyes – or eye sockets, as it were – forward, It thanked me for the gift and saying it was the most thoughtful thing It had ever received. It then reached a long arm across me and pulled the stop indicator. The bus coasted up to the curb and stop with a small bump. Death stood from Its seat and silently glided up and out of the door. The bus warmed up once again and I relaxed back in my seat.

            I sat thinking about that encounter for a few moments. In all the conversations I had had with Death, it always felt like It was the stoic, unflappable one who knew that It was exactly where It was meant to be. Tonight, however, it seemed I was the one who was right where I needed to be. Maybe that was the case more nights than I realized. The bus began to creep forward, and I looked at my watch. 6:51. It was just a normal day again.