When Death Came To Visit

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WHEN DEATH CAME TO VISIT

When death first came to visit, I refused to let her enter my home. She sat outside in the garden picking buttercups, painting her face the color of the sun.

I stood at the window for hours watching her, thinking, Why is she still here? It’s not like she has nowhere to go. I’d try to sleep,

but as soon as I closed my eyes

I would hear her outside talking daisies into blooming at night. I suspect she knew, I too am the type to open my petals for the moon.

On my eighth night awake, I did it. I don't know how, but I did it -- I walked out to the garden and invited her in. I poured her a cup of lavender tea. I made up her bed

and turned down the lights. I wished her good dreams, though I knew her good dream was to one day take my life. I used to believe I knew my purpose,

thought for sure I understood my calling. But my calling, I now know, has always been this: to parent my own departure. To never punish the child for being who she is.

To keep a roof over the head of the truth. To raise what will end me, with love.

Now people often ask how it feels raising a delinquiet child, a child capable

of such awful behavior. But what rule has she ever broken besides the ones we make up in our minds? Ask me instead how it feels to raise a genius,

a child with a boundless IQ. She could get away with anything, yes. She could get away with me any minute. But I trust her. I have to.

I see some of the letters on a chart on a wall. She has infinity/infinity vision. Besides, who would I be if I were someone who would say, I’m gonna ground you

for wanting to heaven me? I won’t do that, ever. It doesn’t matter if I made her with my body or not. She’s mine. I owe her a stable home. I owe her an allowance

without the stipulation that she use it to buy me more time. At night when I tuck her in, I read her a story with the same three words on every page:

You are innocent. You are innocent. You are innocent, I say. Before I close the book she asks, But have you ever known anyone who is so unwanted? It’s the saddest question in the universe,

and she asks it everytime. “People don’t know you,” I say. “They’ll want you when they meet you, won’t they?” She says yes, looking me dead in the eye.

And you, she adds. You’re really okay with who I want to be when I grow up? I know I have to answer honestly. I say, “I don’t want you to grow up too fast.

You know that. You know I can’t help but be one of those parents who wishes their child could stay a child forever. It’s only because I’ve cherished these years so much. But when you’re ready,

I'll be ready, I promise. I’ve committed the rest of my days to learning how

to give you my blessing when it's time to follow your dreams.

I know it's how you say, I love you. I know others will hear it as a curse and try to rinse your mouth out with soap. But I will hear your I love you.

I will hear it so clearly my last words will be I love you too, as I watch you make something of yourself,

as I open my petals for the moon.”

Written by Andrea Gibson two years ago. Ready to be shared with their community now. I know that I have never ready anthing so stunningly and achingly beautiful about death. Please share it as you feel nudged. I feel as if my cells are rearranging themselves as I absorb Andrea's wisdom. May you as well.

—Andrea has said many times, “I write so much about my diagnosis not to remind you that I am mortal, but to remind you that YOU are mortal.” Touching into the impermanence of this life made them cherish it all the more.

My hope is that this poem doesn’t make you sad or worried, but invites you—like Andrea invites us—to “raise what will end you, with love.”

Love,

Meg [ + Andrea, forever ] 🖤