(A/N: This writing is based on beliefs that might be an insult to different religions. I don't mean to offend any of the persons who read this. I'm Catholic, by the way, but I have my own beliefs about the subject I want to talk about and I just want to share them with you)
What is death? Death is the end of life. At least that's what most people say. To me, it isn't. To me, death is just the beginning of another and better life. That's what usually people say when someone closer to them dies: "He's in a better place now." I used to believe that this wasn't true. I used to think that when someone died it was over. I suffered from this when my father, rest in peace, passed away. The day of his funeral, whenever I started crying, my mom said: "You shouldn't cry; if you do so, he won't go to heaven and stay here to wipe away your tears." Of course, that only made me cry even more because I wanted him back with me. He had broken his leg and was forced to use underarm crutches when I was 3 years old. Mom said that in heaven the angels would heal his leg and he would walk normally again.
My brother didn't seem to get affected, but I refused to believe this. I knew that since he had died with his leg broken he would keep his leg broken. I never understood how or why he had died. I was so angry with everyone and I didn't want to be with anyone. Everyday on school I would go to the restroom and spend the recess crying, and some teachers would always ask me what was wrong. I would always answer them nothing. I refused to believe he was dead.
I stopped eating and sleeping regularly for a while; I locked myself in my room the whole day and didn't get out unless I was called. Mom began to worry about me. She said I wasn't being myself anymore. I told her that I was just trying to change my lifestyle into a better way, but she disagreed with this idea.
When I came back from school each day, I would sit down on the sofa and look out the window, only to wait until my father returned from work. He would always enter the house with a green apple on his left hand. I'd run to hug him and thank him for the fruit, saying I was glad he was home. Seconds later, I'd open my eyes and realize I had been dreaming. The same routine was repeated every single day until I stopped having those dreams, because the idea of my father being dead had already pierced my mind like a dagger when it was pierced through a heart.
It wasn't fair. We had traveled to Mexico because his father had died and he wanted us to go to his funeral, though I never got the chance to meet him. Two days later, the last thing I knew about him is that he had been taken to the hospital. The next day, my mom told me that my father had turned into an angel and now he would take care of me from above. Death took them both away too soon, and I always wondered, why?
My friends only wanted to help me. They would star joking and kidding around to make me smile at least once, but all their efforts were useless. I had told them, but they kept trying. Nonetheless, I stopped hanging out with them. On 5th grade, I was left alone. After half a year, I found out about the angels and their supposed purpose. I began to have dreams about the angel of death, and it was always the same one.
I found myself walking by a sidewalk. I stopped in front of a familiar house; the one in which I stayed at when I went to Mexico. Entering, I encountered with a painful memory. My father was lying on the ground with his brothers and my family surrounding him. My 9 years old counterpart was upstairs watching the scene with tears on her eyes. Then, turning my sight back to my father's body, the rest of the people disappeared, except for one that wasn't there previously. A woman with black long hair and wings as dark as the night was kneeling beside him, touching his face carefully. She turned her red eyes to me and smiled weakly, murmuring the words "he'll leave."
I stopped sleeping again. Those dreams were too much burden for me to handle them by myself, but I was afraid of telling anyone, especially my mother. She had been suffering a lot, too, and to tell her that I had had all those problems would be selfish; so I stayed with my burdens.
One month later, the nightmares vanished, and my dreams changed. I would turn into my 9 years old self again. Suddenly, my father would appear, walking normally just as mom had told me. He would extend his hand and say "let's go." I would start running towards him to try and reach up to his hand, but the closer I got, the farer he seemed to be. Just when our fingertips would almost touch, I'd wake up and hear his voice telling me "it's not your time yet."
Recently I've been thinking how it would feel like to die. Sometimes I ask my friends, "How do you think you'll die?" and they always change the subject, some of them stating that they want to sleep well. A few weeks ago, I started thinking about the concept of the "life clocks"; clocks that tell the lifetime you have left. The questions are still in my head, and sometimes I even ask to myself "How do I wanna feel when I die?"
I think, "When my life clock starts getting down to zero, the angel of death will come for me. She will caress my face and hair gently and whisper 'it's time to go.' Then she'll take me to the gates of heaven and I'll reunite with my father and the people of my family who died before me. He shall take my hand and unconsciously, I'll turn into the 9 years old girl I used to be; and then we will all enter heaven and turn into angels to take care of other people."
"What is death?" I ask again, but this time, I'm sure of the answer. "Death is not the end of life, but the beginning of another and better one."