Smile Back...

 

They say, 

Death smiles at us all the time, and all we can do is smile back.

But I think mine winks.

Like he knows something I don’t.

Like he's the annoying friend who always wins a game of rock paper scissors because he's changed the rules again and didn't tell you.

I’ve seen Death in many faces.

He once sat in the third row of my cousin’s wedding eating rice like he was just invited.

His seat reserved under the name, 'special guest'. But how special?

He was there when my grandfather coughed for two weeks.

When we asked him, he said he was okay, just old age. But we knew he was lying.

And so we buried him with a golden wristwatch, as if time was something he could still use in the afterlife.

I once saw Death in a hospital hallway, looking confused by vending machines, probably wondering when grief started accepting credit cards.

Death smiles at us all the time,

but not the creepy horror movie smile;

no, it’s more like

the “You gonna finish that sandwich?” smile,

as if he knows you’ll leave the crusts behind eventually.

Sometimes I think I’ve smiled back

without meaning to.

Like when I texted my ex at 2:04 a.m.

Or ate leftover pizza I didn’t trust

because “Eh, I’ve had worse.”

Or when I crossed the road like I was in an action movie

but forgot I’m built more like background cast.

But this is what I’ve learnt:

We don’t outrun Death.

We outlive moments.

We outlaugh silence.

We outcry pain.

We outstubborn the odds.

We show up to the party anyway, with cracked teeth and cheap wine,

saying “I wasn’t invited, but I’m here.”

My uncle used to say,

“If Death wants me, he better book an appointment.”

This man smoked like a chimney, danced like his knees were on fire,

and lived until 92.

His funeral was catered with his favorite food; fried plantains, cold beer, and a picture of him mid-laughter

on a table no one touched.

Maybe that’s the trick.

Maybe smiling back is not about defiance.

It’s about recognition.

Like two tired coworkers at the end of a shift

who nod at each other in the mirror and say,

“You still breathing? Cool. Me too.”

So yes ...

Death smiles at us all the time.

But maybe he’s just shy.

Maybe he’s waiting for us to stop running

and sit with him for a minute,

ask how his day was,

and remind him:

“Not today, buddy. I’ve still got leftovers,

still got love letters I haven’t sent,

still got people who’d miss my stupid laugh.”

So I smile back.

Because it’s all I can do.

Because life is short

and apparently so am I,

according to my driver’s license.

And because if I’m going down,

I’m going down smiling 

with chips in my hand

and joy in my pockets

and Death wondering

why I’m laughing so damn much.

© amimoh