I stared down at the big, golden dog lying on the table. My dog. Murphy. I stood on my tippy toes, struggling to see over the table. The small room we were in was too white. White walls, white tables, white chairs. Too plain and boring, nothing like my bright yellow room at home with the walls covered in stickers. I liked my room better. A woman and a man walked into the room, entering from the door behind us. They both were wearing white. My brow furrowed as I looked at the strange people and the tears that filled my parents eyes. I tugged on the sleeve of my mom’s shirt, my five-year-old mind struggling to comprehend what was going on around me.

“Mama?” I stared up at her, my eyes big. She bent down to hear me, her brown hair tickling my face. I scrunched up my nose and whispered into her ear so not to hurt the strange people’s feelings. “Who are they? I don’t like them. They don’t look nice.” To me, the man and woman with their too white clothes and somber expressions were people to watch out for, the people who were being referred to when adults always said not to talk to strangers. I eyed them warily.

“They’re the doctors,” My mom whispered back. “They’re going to… help Murphy.” Her brown eyes were glassy and they sparkled with unshed tears. I nodded in understanding, trusting my mom that these people were nice. I eased myself out of the chair and walked over to the people.

“Hi.” I said brightly, staring up at them. “My name’s Ella. What’s yours?”

“Cute kid,” one of them, the man, mumbled. I looked back at my mom, confused. She always said to try to include other kids at the playground so no one would feel left out. I thought she would be proud of me, but she wasn’t even looking. Her head was resting on my dad’s chest, his arms around her. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs.

“Don’t worry, Mommy,” I called and ran over to her. I wrapped my arms around her knees. “They’re going to help Murphy! That’s what you said.” I looked up at my dad for confirmation, but he, too had tears running down his cheeks. I began to cry as well; not knowing what was going on but realizing that if my parents were crying then it was bad. My dad bent down to picked me up and he wrapped his arms around my mom and I. I reached out a chubby hand and touched Murphy’s soft ear, tears dripping off my nose and onto his silky fur. He looked up at me with brown eyes filled with trust and love.

The woman spoke. “Are you ready?” She asked in a gentle tone. My parents nodded, averting their eyes. The woman and the man in white stepped up to the table. The man took a needle and jabbed it into Murphy’s leg. I cried out, thinking it would hurt him, but Murphy didn’t even flinch. He just looked up at us as my mom and dad placed their hands on his back. His breathing was shallow and even. Then it slowed. The rise and fall of his chest gently became shallower. His side barely moved. At long last, he was still.

My mom made a small wailing noise and buried her face in my dad’s shirt. I cried as well-- seeing that both of my parents were so upset—but I still didn’t know what was wrong. Even the strange man and woman were looking mournful.

I gazed at Murphy and was surprised to find an old man in all black standing over him. I looked around, but no one else seemed to notice this strange man who stood out so prominently in the white room. I looked at him, his silvery hair, his filmy black cloak, his head bowed in silent prayer. The old man’s eyes roamed around the room, over the two strangers in white, their heads down, over my parents, clutching each other and sobbing. His gaze rested on me. His eyes widened as he saw me staring at him quizzically. I gave a little wave at the old man. He looked so lonely and sad. The man lifted his hand tentatively, his brow furrowed. I watched the man as he tore his eyes away from me and placed his hands under Murphy’s motionless body. He lifted Murphy up, and gave me a small smile, then disappeared. I looked around, but no one else in the room seemed to have seen the strange old man who took Murphy. Then I looked down on the table, and Murphy was still there.

That was the first time I saw Death.

The second time was on a dark, deserted street. I half believed I had imagined him there, because everything was so shadowy and he blended in, with his dark clothes and black cloak. But I saw him lift the poor, innocent squirrel hit by the car into his arms, the same way he had with Murphy just two years before.

I didn’t know who he was, but eventually I figured it out. Who else could he be? I had convinced myself that he was just a figment of my imagination, that I was so upset I hallucinated, when the call came that my grandpa was sick and was in the hospital. That summer, I turned nine. At the hospital, I saw him everywhere, so frequently that I realized he had to be real. I saw him my first day visiting my grandpa. He was walking along the hallway on the third floor. It seemed impossible that I was the only one who seemed to notice him. Again, he stood out against all the squeaky clean whiteness and the smell of antiseptics. This time he looked much more lonely and tired. Much older. His face was more lined, and he looked sadder.

I saw him go into a room, just slipping in through the open door, but I never saw him come out. I only heard the beeping from in the room quiet and the sobs echo.

That’s when I realized who he was. And why he was so sad. But not why I was the only one who could see him.

One day I was with my grandpa. It was his fifth month in the hospital. Things weren’t looking good, but I tried to be optimistic, tried to put on a brave face. But I knew it was all over when I saw Death slip into the room. He looked at me, and looked at him. His eyes still haunt me. They were so hollow and filled with pain. I stared with sympathy, tears forming in my eyes. Death broke his gaze, walked over to my grandpa, and embraced him like a brother. Then he, and my grandpa’s soul, vanished. The beeping from my grandpa’s heart machine stopped. My mom began to cry. But all I could do was sit there and stare blankly, haunted by the image of Death’s eyes.

To this day, I do not know why I can see Death. Why do some people have green eyes? Why are some people tall and others short? It is just who we are. I have seen him only twice since my grandpa’s death, but I know there will be more. Many more. Death is a just another part of life. The happy ending to a story. Many are haunted by the thought of Death, but I am not among them. I have seen Death; seen his care and gentleness with those he takes. I have seen his remorse, his sadness. I don’t know why I can see those things, but I do know one thing for certain. I am not afraid of him. I am not afraid of Death. For when I have lived my life and all my time here is spent, when I die and Death takes me, at least I will see a familiar face.