Tea with Death

I think everybody has a favorite cup of tea, even if they don't know it. Even people who say tea is just hot, bitter water for stuck-up people stop complaining when I set down the right mug in front of them. 

The people who come to see me show up confused, often talking about how they need to get back to something terribly important that they can't miss. Last week a middle-aged man showed up at my door, absolutely distraught, saying over and over how he was missing his son's last baseball game of the season, telling me how he promised he'd be there. He was clean-shaven, wearing a crisp gray suit and smelling strongly of old spice. And he was crying. He looked very professional, I'll give him that, but he had a sort of stale quality to him. The sort of man who missed out on life and only realized it once it was too late. I sat him down at a table in the corner, brought him a mug of Earl Gray with a splash of cream, and just sat with him a while. I don't usually like milk with dark teas myself; I think it rather dulls the flavor. But it seemed to suit the man, who was called James. It's my gift to pick out the perfect tea for every person I meet.

He told me how he had been just about to leave for his son's game, when he got a call from his manager saying he needed to attend a crucial emergency meeting about an important donor. He told me how his son had been begging him to come to a game all season. He told me how he made a decision and told his manager for the first time that he wouldn't be able to make it to the meeting. He left the house in a hurry, nearly forgetting to lock the door. He got in his car and started across town, thinking he would make it just in time to see his son's first at-bat. He told me how he made a promise to himself as he drove never to miss a game again. He was driving maybe a bit quickly, and there was a yellow light, but suddenly it was red and he wasn't quite across the intersection in time. James told me about the silver car slamming into his, the grinding of metal. He told me about the soft shifting, and then suddenly, being at my tea shop.

I let him talk for a while, and I listened to him cry. And I didn't tell him it was all going to be okay, because Death is a scary thing, no matter how old you are. What always seems to worry people most is how soft the ending is. There must be more, they think, to dying. This can’t be all there is. Sometimes it seems that death is a lonely and simple thing, and it is the hardest lesson to learn. But still, I watch people work themselves into a panic, not so much at the realization that they are dead, but at the fact that it’s all come to a close. It isn’t so much the fact that they’re gone, but the quiet fact that it’s over. It’s always more simple than they’re expecting. You were there, and now you are here, having tea with me. 

Old people are usually ready when they arrive, though not always. Some come to be with gray hair and bent backs and wrinkled faces, and relief shows on their faces when they realize that they don’t have to bear the weight of their own brittle bones anymore. Others come a bit too soon, not quite ready to let go of the tethers of life, of who they once were and who they could have been. People always wish for more time, but time is a fickle thing. But Death is not. 

Surprisingly, it’s often children who handle it best. I had a little girl once, a tiny slip of a thing who knocked at my door early one Saturday morning. There were dark circles under her eyes and she was tragically thin. She had no hair, but her eyes were bright and determined and curious. She seemed happy to have finally arrived, and sat right down at my table. She looked at me expectantly, as though she was waiting for me. I gave her some Honeybush tea in a mug with little blue rabbits all around the rim, and she told me that she was a chemo girl. And then she asked me if she was in Heaven. She wasn’t upset, or mad, when I told her she wasn’t. She just nodded, and went silent for a while. All I could hear was the quiet little slurps of tea and the clock above the mantelpiece. Sometimes the silence was nice. After a while, when her mug was empty and the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, I asked her if she was ready to go. She paused a moment, and then asked me if we were going to go back to the Hospital. No, I told her. We’re just moving on. Still she did not stand up. Then, in a firm little voice, she asked Who are you? I bent down and let her look at my face, run her fingers along my hollow cheeks, stare right into my eyes. And I knew she wasn’t afraid. I am a friend, I said simply. Gently, I took her hand and we stepped outside. I walked with her until she was ready to walk alone. My legs don’t hurt anymore, she cried. And she kept walking as the sun rose, and she smiled and didn’t look back. I watched her until she disappeared, fading into the wind.  

My job isn’t always easy. Sometimes, I look back, and I see the people who were left behind. I see a little boy after a baseball game, scanning the crowd for his father. I see a woman get a call about an accident. I see her face crumple. I see a mother next to an empty hospital bed, sobbing as though her heart might shatter and never be whole again. I see a daughter kneeling above a coffin, looking upon a snow-white face, touching a withered old hand one last time. I see a father, finding his daughter, for whom life was just too much to bear. I see people all over the globe who are numb with grief at the people they lost, wishing that they had just a moment more. Just a few more seconds. One last hug. 

The average person spends 36,702,00 minutes on planet Earth. Some people get much less, some get more. For many, it’s not enough, and for some, the minutes they are told they must spend on Earth are too much to bear. Some cut their minutes short. Some defy the odds and live when people say it is impossible. Time is a fickle thing. But so precious. 

And when time runs out, I will be there. I am nothing if not fair, for everyone must know me eventually. When their minutes run out, I will be there waiting with open arms. Death need not be a lonely affair.