A Story About Death

Before bed, my young daughter wants a story, she tells me,so I start by saying this story about death never ends, and thoughmy daughter must sleep soon, I promise to tell as muchas I can, this story that will continue within my young daughterall her life, this story about how another little girl wants to knowwhat death is because her father died when she was seven.So the story begins: the little girl whose father diedsets out from her house in the woods to ask, What is death?She's ready to hear the answer. She's ready to say hello. She's readyto know the dark, the same dark that now surrounds her father.

________

During her walk through evening oak and cedar, the little girlnotices the old woman's house, the living-room light squaredagainst the grass. The little girl knocks and begins to count;when she arrives at twenty-five the old woman opens the door,invites her in, motions to the three-cushion couch on whichthe old woman had been reading a book. Hello, old woman,the little girl says, can you please tell me what death is?Death, says the old woman, death is what a dog looks likewhen it visits the human world. Thank you, the little girl says,but I think you are wrong, and now I must keep walking.

________

The little girl feels the old woman's lawn damp beneath her feetand thinks of the middle-aged man down the path who wavedlast week while resting from his sawing of the wood. At this hour,though, there is no sawing of the wood, the house so darkthe little girl recalls once watching a large animal whose sleepwas of such beauty she wondered if the large animal were dead.But the large animal was not dead, so the little girl peeks intothe backyard, where the middle-aged man stands smokingwhile regarding the silence of the trees, the small speck of sunswelling and fading like a lightning bug in front of his face.

________

Why are you here, the middle-aged man asks the little girlwho responds, Hello, I want to know, what is death? The soundof wind hurries through the idea of leaves. The moon barelydisrupts the sky. Every time I try, he says, to think about death,all I can see is a bowl of oranges, just a blue bowl of brightoranges. Who lives here with you, the little girl wants to know,so the man leads her in through the back door, flips the light,points like a guide to the framed photos lining the walls.All these people, I loved, they loved me, all dead, the man says.The little girl sits on the green stuffed chair to rest a while.

________

I'm sorry about these people, but I must keep going, she says,and farther down the path, a forest clearing catches her attentionbecause one large tree occupies the otherwise empty field, not an oaknor cedar, but a tree with twisting knots like knuckles, a treethe little girl has never seen. Excuse me, large tree, I need to knowwhat death is, but no one can tell me. She hears only the whoosh of an owl before settling into silence. Large tree, you try on deathevery winter, how does it feel? A cloud interrupts the faint moonas a small branch falls at her feet, a branch, when held, whose limbswishbone toward her chest and the space the owl made into its own.

________

In whisper, she catches, But you try on death every night. She cannotplace the source of the sound, for within the tree's crown everythingis still—only her attention moves. I shouldn't speak to what can'tbe seen speaking, she says, but I think you know something I don'tabout death. Along the same darkened path she has been traveling,a small brown dog trots without a glance...