Death’s Introduction

I had sat in this same place doing the. same thing so many times before and after that day, but only that one day is as clear to me as fresh air. It was before we got new carpet, our new couch, and our new television. It was even before my first dog passed, but it was still the same then as it is now. The couch was blue fabric, with little dots of yellow and red thread woven throughout. The left side of the couch was mainly white, since that was the spot my white dog claimed as her own years earlier. As per the usual at that time in my life, I was wearing baggy fluorescent floral leggings and a loose graphic t-shirt. My hair hung down in its slightly longer than shoulder length greasy and tangled cascade. The television was on, but I have long since forgotten what was playing. A stand-up fan blew around the warm air lazily. My dog sat in front of the screen door to my left, as she always did during the day, lazily watching for any commotion outside our door.

The phone had rung twice before my mom picked up. I thought nothing of it; my mom got calls all the time. The tv continued to absorb my whole attention, my mind not taking in my surroundings or acknowledging the ominous air already in the room. I heard the soft click of the receiver, indicating my mom had hung up the phone. I heard her footsteps coming towards me from the kitchen to my right. They were softer and slower than usual, but I disregarded the difference as unimportant. As soon as my mom walked in the room, I felt the air change. It was thicker, more filled than it had been just a second before. I felt my mom squat next to the couch and felt her warm touch on my arm. She grabbed the remote, turned off the tv, and looked straight into my eyes in a way she never had before.

“Mom! It wasn’t even a commercial. I’m gonna miss what happens! Can’t this wait?” I cried out.

Her eyes still stared in the way I never knew existed until that moment, and I knew it could not wait.

“What?”

My mom whispered the words I never thought I would hear other than in story books and on tv. I didn’t believe her at first. Of course it couldn’t be true. We were only ten years old. We hadn’t even learned what it meant to be alive.

I did not cry at first because my brain didn’t let me believe what was happening was real. I laughed, insisting that my mom was joking, but of course she wasn’t. This was no joking matter. Then I felt the lump. That lump you get right before the never ending waterfall begins to break through. I felt my eyes go dry like they always did before I start to cry and never stop.

That moment is the only moment that I remember so clearly. I had sat there many times before and many times after, but that moment is the only one that I remember, the only one that matters. That moment was the first time I was taught the importance of a moment because soon those moments will become memories, and, only if you’re lucky, you’re the one who gets to remember them.