Life and Death {Enoch O'Connor}

1

Everyone knew he was strange.

Being born to a family of undertakers didn't help his reputation much either.

They all knew he was strange but they didn't know the extent of his strangeness.

His fascination with death started at a young age. Growing up, he saw the cold white faces of those recently passed, their sunken eyes, their hollow cheeks, their arms folded across the chests that would never rise again. Old and young, male and female, white and black or anywhere in between. Death didn't have a preference, it just took whomever it pleased.

Enoch was two when he saw a dead man for the first time.

A casket lay open in the funeral parlor while his parents finished up the final preparations: brewing some hot tea, adjusting the flower arrangements, making sure there were enough tissues to go around.

On an ordinary day, his grandparents would have picked him up to take him out while the wake took place so his parents could cater to their clients without worrying about a wild child. But his grandmother had come down with a nasty cold the evening before, leaving his parents to deal with the child alone.

He was told to sit patiently in a stiff wooden chair and wait until they were done. But what two-year-old boy could sit still that long when there was a whole world to explore? Hardly a minute had passed before he was out of his seat and toddling around.

Curious, as all young children are, he found himself admiring the polished wooden box in the front of the room. Standing on his tippy toes and clinging to the edge on the box, he peered in to see pale man, fast asleep.

Enoch thought it was an odd place for a man to nap. He stared at his old wrinkled face but didn't recognize it. He wondered who this man was. Reaching out, as far as his little arm could, he poked the man's cheek to wake him. But he didn't stir. His skin was limp and cold. Enoch tried again, but still he didn't wake.  He tried once more, letting out a shrill squeal, which was baby speak for "wake up sir, who are you?"

"Enoch!" He heard his mother exclaim in the voice she only used when he was doing something he wasn't supposed to. She dashed over, scooping him up and pulling him away from the man.

From then on, he got many other glimpses of the corpses that visited his family's parlor. But wasn't until three years later that his parents explained the concept of death.

Enoch remembered sitting by the window of his house, waiting for his grandparents to pick him up for the day. The rain beat down on the glass and he watched two drops of water race each other down the pane. He waited for an hour, then two, but no one ever came. That night, he found his mother in living room, her face streaked with tears like the rain he'd watched all day.

The next morning, his father sat him down for what he called a "man-to-man." Enoch liked that idea, because it meant he didn't need to sit next to his baby sister, who always wailed and pulled at the dark curls on his head.

His father, who Enoch was often told he was the spitting image of, cleared his throat, "Sometimes, Enoch, when people go to sleep, they don't wake up."

"Why not?" Enoch blinked. Why would anyone want to sleep that long? There's so many more fun things to do while awake!

"Well, they may be old, or sick, or hurt, and they go off to a place in their sleep where they will feel better." He explained the best he could.

"Do they come back?"

His father frowned with a shake of his head, "I'm afraid not. But with time, everyone they know and love will join them and be happy."