This piece was a response to a prompt given at the Grief and Healing Retreat. We were encouraged to personify both life and death, and imagine ourselves in a conversation with them: on a road trip, having afternoon tea, or lying with them in bed.

My new bed isn’t quite big enough to sleep three people comfortably, so we’re cuddled up together: me and Life and Death. Death’s feet are ice cold, so I’ve asked him to put on some socks.

“Why?” he asks. Death is cranky, as usual, and feels misunderstood. “You want me to put on socks so you can feel more comfortable? Forget it. If you’re uncomfortable with me, you’ll just have to get used to it.”

Life is warm and snuggly, but I can’t get him to stop talking.

“What about a retreat in Australia?” he coos. “You should plan that for 2019.”

“If you live that long,” Death chimes in. He’s got his arm draped over my chest; I can feel his bony pelvis against my back.

“You’ll be fine,” Life insists. I’ve got my pelvis pressed against his back, and I’m fighting to keep down an erection.

“You might want to get used to sleeping on your other side,” Death whispers in my ear. “You won’t be able to sleep on this side after surgery.” He slides his hand over my heart.

“What are you whispering about?” Life asks. “There are no secrets between us!” Like all twins, their voices have a similar cadence.

“Just surgery and pain,” Death replies. “And complications.”

“Complications?”

“You know, like infection. Internal bleeding—”

“I really need to get some sleep,” I interject. “Everything you’re talking about is a maybe. Right now, I’m in my bed. I’m healthy. My body is whole.”

“For now,” Death says, “but eventually. . .”

“What about your trip to Spain?” Life asks. He can never stay on one topic for very long. “Shouldn’t you be brushing up on your Spanish?”

“Seguro,” I say. “Manaña.”

“Or never,” Death says. “You could drop dead of a heart attack tomorrow.”

“Stents save people every day,” Life says. “And blood thinners!”

“Cancer,” Death says, “spreading as we speak.”

“Targeted chemo is so promising,” Life replies.

“Guys!” I say, raising my voice. “I need seven hours of sleep. No less.” All signs of an erection have vanished.

“Remember the woman you met who has cancer but climbs mountains?” Life asks. Death grumbles. “She has spots on her liver, but she’s still a force to reckon with.”

“She fights too hard,” Death says. “But I’ll convince her. I always get my way.”

“Ah,” Life says. “But you need my cooperation.”

“You always think you’re so much better than I am,” Death whines like a six-year old. “You’re such an elitist!”

“But you’re associated with turning off a switch,” I say. “And then everything just goes black, just stops.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Death says. He sounds wounded.

“It’s scary,” I say.

“It’s the most natural thing in the world,” Death says.

“Like giving birth,” Life says.

After that, they are finally silent. I fall into a deep sleep. I dream I’m on a mountaintop, water is rushing through the valley below. In the distance gleam snow-capped mountains, silver and white.