The Child

Alfie Cooper, Samuel Walker, Ellie Newton, Zoe Teller, John McDermot, Lin McDermot, Mia Finly, Willow Hamelton, Ben Smith, Jess Owens… The list goes on. Men, women, children. I watch at a distance as their soul moves without its shell then I gently offer my hand much like the young man did for Clara at Lucy's birthday party. I say, as kindly and with as much understanding as possible, "You are dead and I am here to collect you." Many questions. Out of everyone today, I only answered the child something other than "I don't know."

They asked different questions. The child did not ask if they were good or which religion was correct – they took the answer to be "yes" and "you" – but instead seemed more interested in me. "Mummy said I wouldn't die," they told me. I smiled and kept some distance. "Everyone dies eventually," I answered. "Do you?" they asked. The child pulled itself out of bed, away from its body and knelt by the sheets. They reached under their bed. After some thought, I was able to say, "Not in the way you think. Not in a way I'd want." The child crawled out the other side of its bed and threw a suitcase onto its body. It was refreshing to collect a chid. Upsetting but different. They were unphased by their body and their mortality. They accepted everything I told them surprisingly quickly. I watched as they stumbled about their room and packed – toys first, some sweets then a couple of clothes. The child wandered past me like so many before them. When they came back into view, they had a pile of paper they struggled to fit into their suitcase. When the child finally accepted they wouldn't fit, they offered me the meaningful nonsense I was too ignorant and distant to understand. "My friend made me this. This is him and me and we are fighting a pirate dinosaur," they explained. I looked through the rest. If it weren't for the large wobbly letters telling me what was meant to be scribbled in different colours, I'd have no idea what the child was showing me. All were of the people in their life. As I flipped through I saw so much creativity, pain, joy, hope, naivety… It was pure. It was human. "Do you not have friends?" they asked. I tossed the paper on the floor. "No. I have my job," I answered. My eyes couldn't leave the abandoned scribbles. A happy child, their parents comforting them, their friends helping them. "I can be your friend," the child offered.

I stood up and grabbed the paper. They stared at me with kind, innocent eyes that I had to turn my back on. I couldn't escape them, though. I carefully placed the scribbles next to the body. Some noise behind me drew my attention. The child was trying to stuff one last toy in the case. "Mummy and daddy gave me this. They said it will protect me. Do you have a mummy and daddy?" they asked. The child stopped packing and waited for my answer. I wish I could tell them what they wanted to hear. Or maybe its what I wanted. The answer, however, was "No." Their mouth opened to ask another question but closed and dismissed it. Finally, the child stuffed their cotton guardian into the essence of their depressingly short life and closed it. "What do you have?" they asked. The child stood in front of me with its suitcase sat before it, bursting at the seams with all the child could have been and all they were. They wouldn't need that stuff, I don't think. "I have my job and that is enough," I lied. They didn't know what it was, but I could name the emotion they exuded from every fibber of their being. Pity. The dead child pitied me. "I'm ready," they told me.

I held my hand out to them but pulled away before their tiny fingers could grasp my cold hands. "Do you want to say goodbye to your mummy and daddy?" I asked. They nodded. I pulled myself away and walked through the wall, my hand encouraging the child to follow. I waited patiently as they kissed the sleeping adults and when they were done, the child with its suitcase waddled over to me. "Are you scared?" I asked. "A little." My hand stretched out for one last time and the child took it. "Don't worry," I found myself assuring them, "It is like going on holiday."