I heard death speak

I heard death speak when I was sweeping the floors. 

I worked as a janitor in a hospital and people died often. Death was more a coworker than a tragedy. I was focusing on the baseboards as I walked, my eyes trained on any dust i might miss, my mind elsewhere, when I heard it. 

It wasn't what I imagined deaths voice to sound like. That croaky scraping waves on rocks sound. Instead it was soft, and warm. Like how the teacher would gently say your name to wake you when you fell asleep at your desk in grade school. The tone that carries concern and pity all in one. I knew it had came from mister Davis room. Mister Davis and I had never got along. He always complained about how the cleaner i mopped with smelled. And sometimes in his grumpy confusion would mistake me for his son. 

I've always wondered who he thought death was that day he came for him

I paused, broom in hand, outside of his hospital room

“That's fine..just lock the house up when you leave.” Mister Davis wheezes in his elderly voice that somehow sounds too dry and betrays the damp rot in his lungs all at once

 Death pauses a moment and I can almost imagine he was amused. “I will” responds the soft voice. Warmth and pity, like before. Death and I are rhe same in that way. He does not correct mister Davis. He does not say “you are in the hospital you silly old crone how could I lock your doors.” The same way I would nod and say “I will dad” when he would tell me to be careful driving home. 

For the first time i wonder where mister Davis actual son is. If he had one I hadn't seen him in the months room 308 has been occupied. But mister Davis certainly saw him enough. I don't know what kind of father he was but he loved his son enough to see his face in every man who entered his room. It seemed death was no exception. 

It comforts me in a way. Knowing that he saw his son in that moment. That when faced with his own morality his only concern was his forgetful child locking the front door behind him. 

Nothing more was said between them. After a few seconds I mustered up the courage to peek in the half ajar door. There was no one but mister Davis. Motionless in his hospital bed. He looked asleep more than anything. I expected the quiet conversation to be follwed by screaming of medical alarms and the quick feet of nurses. But mister Davis had been there a long time. And as life goes they has more pressing matters. I stare at him a moment to check for the rise and fall of his chest and realize it's the first time I've really truly looked at him. When I confirm he is not intact breathing muscle memory kicks in and I run numbly to the nurses station.

Again I expected chaos. But no one ran. They didn't even look alarmed. He was a DNR and had been there a very long time. And as I said they had more pressing matters. 

I pick up my broom which had been leaned against the wall outside his door. And deaths voice still bouncing around in my mind, Return to work. 

I wish I could tell you I thought about him. That I went to the trouble of finding out where he was buried and remained his only visitor. I wish I could tell you every father's day I pause by the cardboard chess set in the dollar store and regret not sitting at his bedside for a quick game just one of the many times he asked. But as I have said before

Mister Davis had been there a very long time

And there are always more pressing matters