Death Knocks

 Death Knocks

The beginning of the end,
they call it. A phrase passed
like gossip,
like the lid of a coffin passed down
through generations.

Some want it swift—
if I go, let it be quick.
Some want time—
give me a minute to tidy my life,
kiss my daughter,
fold the laundry.

I’m ready, I think—
me, just me.
But not for your death,
not for hers,
not for the hush that falls
when your neighbour doesn’t open the curtains.
Not for that.

It knocks—
sometimes like thunder,
sometimes soft as the memory of a lullaby.
A cough.
A bruise.
A silence you learn to speak around.

We tell them:
Walk.
Smile.
Try.
As if effort is medicine,
as if breath is earned.

Exist harder, we whisper.

But they’ve heard it too, haven’t they?
That knock.
Pretending not to.
For us.

Too far gone,
they might say.
And still—
they stay.
Not for themselves.
For the shape of our hand in theirs.
For the grief we haven't learned to carry.