Death Comes to Tea
Death doesn't show up at the door with a sense of threat when it comes to tea. Instead of carrying a scythe or arriving in a storm, it enters the room stealthily, its footsteps as faint as shadows. A cup of tea may be steaming gently in front of you as you sit in a warm, sunny corner and breathe in the aroma of chamomile and lavender. Death gets a chair out and takes a seat across from you. There is an almost familiar presence, but there is no hurry or quick fear.
You look on, unsure of how to strike up a discussion. Maybe you enquire as to whether it need milk or sugar. Perhaps it wants to convey a story or a collection of recollections gathered over many centuries. In a way, the silence between drinks is consoling as Death nods and listens. You understand that its purpose is simply to be there, a silent reminder that it has always been there, patient and not hurried, rather than to terrify or disturb.
Clarity seems to be in the air. As though Death's serene presence had invited you to see things more clearly, you take stock of your life. The insignificant concerns seem far away today, as if they were misplaced from a previous existence. You pose a query to Death, perhaps one you've had concerning the afterlife or life's mysteries. Death tilts its head, and even though it doesn't say anything, you get the impression that you already know the solution.
Death gets up to go as the tea cools and the discussion wanes. It has other teas to attend and other calls to make. However, it acknowledges the link and lingers for a moment. When it's gone, you're left feeling a strange combination of sadness and serenity, knowing that this encounter was as inevitable as the day's passing.