The last few weeks of November are seemingly motionless. They hang at the brink of desolation and solitude, arriving at a time when everything has just finished dying away. The last weeks of November reach our senses only a few moments too late, but with death, a few moments is all the time in the world. The final November weeks are curiously cold and silent, with their early evening darknesses and their blue-purple sunrises, lacking the proper flair a sunrise deserves. The days filling these weeks are anxious and eerie, and one can never be sure of what to expect during weeks like these. They are crowded with surprises, and too often the unpleasant sort. The time at the end of November quivers with expectancy, and sometimes, even horror.

It was in November of the year I was six years old. When I was in first grade, the husband of my Sunday school teacher died, or rather, as I was told, “passed away.” It would have been no concern of mine, except Granny beseeched my presence at the visitation for the man. I was to act as a comfort for the weary and grievous soul of my Sunday school teacher. I was to serve as a symbol of light at a time in her life filled with melancholy darkness. And I agreed. Strangely, I was not at all intimidated by the possibility, or rather, certainty, of meeting death. I viewed the whole affair as an excellent privilege, a sign of freshly discovered maturity. I was to attend a grown-up event with an important purpose! No, I felt not even the slightest amount of unease at the idea of the situation. I began to anticipate what it would mean for me with excitement and blind, breathless optimism.

The mourners wrapped their way around the building in a line which snaked its way around and around through several rooms of the funeral home. It was a desolate and gaudy place, filled with mourners wrapped in black wool sorrow and the scent of ostentatious death flowers. The smell of those disgustingly fragrant petals is what I remember most. It edged its way into the minds of all present and stifiled every pleasant thought. The sickeningly sweet odor managed to choke out all the happiness in the building; all the happiness except that of a myopic six-year-old. This is what I remember as the waiting phase. I recall tired feet, mindless small talk, and the disquieting aroma of those stupid flowers. We waited for what seemed like forever in the weary atmosphere. I occupied my time with admiring the way the light fell on the beautiful, sleek fabric of my black velvet dress, another symbol of my newfound sophistication. At last, we reached the room immediately prior to the area holding the family and more importantly, the casket. I could feel a strange sense of change looming in the air, so very close; close enough to seize it all for myself. It thrilled me, and yet, the thought of grabbing it scared me more than anything I had ever experienced in my short life.

Finally, we stepped into the death room. We were still at least ten bodies away from the main attraction, however. I could feel the hushed whisper of death against my skin, and peering around at the massiveness of the vulgar coffin, I began to wonder. What is death? Dying? Passed away, dead? They certainly were not words I had ever associated with myself. I was suddenly overwhelmed with the distinct dizziness of curiosity. My only desire was to see what was in that casket, to reach out and touch the face of death. Trudging ever-so-slowly forth on the garish pink carpet, my Granny and I finally reached the familiar face of my dear Sunday school teacher. She appeared calm enough, but I remember sharply the unusual continuation when she cloaked me in her tired arms. Releasing me, I waited for Granny to finish administering her words of comfort and consolation to the family, and I knew it was time. Stepping bravely forth, I caught my first glance of death. When I peeped down into the ornate box, I did not see the pallid softness of a dead man’s face, but instead, I viewed the screaming figure of my own impending mortality, and heard the whispered secrets I would never want to share. The quiet figure was engulfed in a dark sleep, and the breath of death seemed everywhere around me. In a trance, I allowed myself to be quietly led away from the despondent place.

I can recall questioning Granny the whole way home; my dizzy curiousity had evolved into a sick need for answers. That night, I attempted to scrub the nauseating stillness of death from my skin in the bath. But it did not matter. I still felt the morbid shroud of decease covering my entire being. I remember even after my bath was over, constantly washing my hands, trying to cleanse myself of the memories of the finality and expiration I had experienced. I kept looking in the mirror, I had to check to be certain I was still all the way there, to be sure the rosy pink of my cheeks had not disappeared. It was time for bed too soon. I remembered how the dead man had only appeared to be sleeping, and I was certain I was going to die in my sleep. It was months before I got a full night’s sleep again, years before I slept well.

I do not think I was or am afraid of death, but rather of my own ceasing to exist. I think I am frightened by the thought of not having accomplished all I want to accomplish, of not having seen all I want to see, of not having done all I want to do, of not living. I am really not afraid of dying at all, not the silent calm of the grave or the curtain of departure, no. It is death’s side effects that terrify me. I guess the thing I am most afraid of in the entire world, in all of existence, is of being forgotten.