Dear Death,
I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.
Not in a morbid way — more in that quiet, creeping way where I feel you breathing just behind the moments I cherish most.
You’ve been near.
In the lines on my parents’ faces.
In the post-cancer fatigue my father can’t seem to shake.
In the moments when my mother’s memory feels soft around the edges, and the quiet sorrow she carries while witnessing her own mother fade.
You’ve moved from the shadows into the spotlight of my mind.
And I’m not sure what to do with you there.
You terrify me, if I’m honest.
Not just because of what you take —but because of what you leave behind: the questions, the silence, the ache.
What are you, really?
A portal?
An ending?
A homecoming?
A reset?
A vanishing?
Some say you’re a reunion — that we return to the souls we love, in some heavenly forever.
Others say we come back — new life, new lessons, new body.
And some believe we simply cease.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Lights out. Game over.
I don’t know what to believe.
And that not knowing…it shakes me.
Because I want more time.
Because I want to hold on.
Because I want to protect everyone I love from you.
And I know I can’t.
I’m growing a life inside me — my son.
And while I carry him, I can’t stop thinking about the lives that carried me.
How fragile it all is.
How unfair it feels to love this deeply knowing it won’t last forever — at least not in the way I understand.
So I guess this is me asking you, Death…
Can you be a little more gentle?
A little more kind?
Can you whisper instead of roar?
Can you come slowly, or not at all, to the ones I love?
And if you must come…can you bring peace with you?
Can you help me believe that whatever is next is not an end but a return?
To light.
To love.
To something more beautiful than I can imagine?
I know I can’t escape you.
None of us can.
But maybe I can learn to walk beside you without fear.
To stop seeing you only as a thief — and begin to see you as a teacher.
Maybe, with time, I’ll trust you.
Maybe, when I’m ready, I’ll even thank you.
But not yet.
Right now, I just need a little more time — to love harder, to hold longer, to live more fully.
Until then, please be tender with us.
We’re still learning how to let go.
Caitlin
