Issue 22 - 1992

No Stranger
Donald Berry
Coe Review • Issue 22
Death was at the door that evening. Winter had fallen upon
the mountains and Death caught a free ride on its frigid winds. Inside
the pine cabin the old man sat by the fire place watching the flames
eat away the wood as Death raised his knuckles and knocked on the
door. The old man did not want to hear the knock so he didn’t. Death
knocked again but the flames continued to burn and the old man
continued to watch. Death passed through the door, leaned his scythe
against the wall and hung his cloak neatly on the coat rack. The old
man turned to Death. “I don’t remember inviting you in, and you can
shut the door behind you on your way out,” the old man said dryly
to the bare, seven-foot skeleton.
“And good evening to you,” Death said, seating himself in
the large, red-felt lounge chair opposite the old man’s rocker.
“Sure, have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
The old man looked Death in the eye sockets, “I’m not
coming with you, you’re too late.”
“No such thing as too late when it comes to me.”
The old man turned back to the fire without reply. He pulled
his army blanket tighter around his shoulders and leaned closer to
the fire. Death made him cold. Death’s voice sent a sensation across
his body that was like being naked next to a winter windowpane. The
old man breathed heavily, expanding and contracting his nostrils.
“Why tonight? After all those times, why now?”
“That’s like asking the sun why it rises. You’ll never
understand me, see me as an escort if you must, an escort to a world
with out the perception of time, the perception of the body.”
“The body? Whad’do you know about the body? You don’t
even have a face!”
“Yes, but I have a great smile.”
The old man’s vision skipped nervously from brick to brick
on the hearth in front of the fire as sparks jumped out, glowed
orange, danced on the brick and disappeared into black, smoking
specks. There was silence. The old man’s breathing increased so that
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