One day, Death came to my door, knocking gently, patiently awaiting permission to enter. He can see that I have my hands full as I gesture to him with a nod to enter. I finally set aside the task at hand and got down to preparing some tea. I notice the ginger biscuits in the far end of the cupboard that I was saving for a special occasion, and now seems as good a time as any, as I place them on a plate. Once we sip on the tea, we strategize how to tie up all the loose ends in the limited time we are offered. We get up and head towards the exit. Only this time, when I look back, I notice that Life carries on the same, regardless of my presence. I wonder why I didn't laugh more; speak my truth or be kinder and more forgiving towards myself. Who the hell asked me to take this whole business so seriously?