The Memory Keeper

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It's heartbreaking when they don't understand, and most of them don't. Their eyes go wide in fear and confusion, pleading me to answer their questions. Where am I? What happened? What about my family? My friends? They stare at me in disbelief, and it's defeat that makes them look back over their shoulders, even as they step forward.
It's easier when they already know they're dead. They know who I am, recognize me from a story they were told when they were young, or from a half-remembered dream, or from the vague memory of having taken this journey together so many times before. I can see it in their faces. And rather than defeat propelling them to stand beside me, to take those first steps toward the light, it’s resolution, acceptance of the duty given them for having lived.
When they already know they're dead, I don't have to answer heartbreaking questions. I don't have to explain that I am Death, that I am there to guide them to their next life, and that they, in order to live again, must give me their memories. When they already know, they're more hopeful than afraid, and I am glad to lead them, for the memories they offer up are better told.

Charles
“I know you, don't I?”
Charles Wright, 47-years-old, his hair turning a distinguished shade of gray at the temples, stands staring at his worn, brown penny loafers.
“It was that truck merging onto the freeway, wasn't it? I could tell, when I looked in my rear-view mirror, it wouldn't be able to stop in time.” A smile, tinged with sadness, brightens his young, old face. “I was on my way to see my daughter at the hospital. My first grand-baby, a girl. Elisse.” As he says his granddaughter's name, he lifts his head and squints at the bright, white light in the distance and tak...

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...ted but could never have. Not in this life, but perhaps in the next. With a gentle tug, she commands my attention.
“I'm ready.”

It's easier when they know they're dead. They give me their memories, and I lead them into the light. They have to forget, so they can learn again and, hopefully, become better for it. So, that’s the trade-off: a new life in exchange for letting go of the old one. What most of them don’t know, their letting go gives me, Death—who has never lived, never loved, never gone for a walk—something to hold onto. All the people I meet, and I have met and will meet all of them, over and over, when they’re ready, they come to the same realization. I can only do what I’m meant to, no matter what expectations people may have of me. This is the duty I was given, just as all things in the universe are given a purpose. I am Death, and I keep memories.

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