we, who are mortals
by Aqeela Naqvi
we often welcome sudden visitors graciously into our homes. in a time-tested speed routine, we quickly prepare to wait on the unannounced.
but when we are faced with Death, the only certain visitor, we spend our time peering behind curtains, closing shutters, locking doors. we believe that if we look away quickly enough, if we close our eyes fervently enough, we won’t hear the steady footsteps, the creaking of the stairs, the sharp rap on the door…
despite watching people as solid as ourselves pass beyond the veil; despite dying each night and reawakening each morning, we remain in denial. (ignoring side mirror cemeteries as we drive down night roads, because the windows are down, there is a breeze, we feel alive alive alive)
it’s strange, isn’t it, how reluctant we are to accept our own mortality?