The Last Bowl of Soup
What my grandmother taught me about dying awake
Steam rises from my grandmother’s hospital soup, curling like a question mark in the yellow afternoon light. The plastic spoon clinks against the bowl’s edge as she lifts each spoonful with deliberate grace. Outside, a maple leaf catches the October sun, spinning gold before releasing its grip on the branch. One moment it’s part of the tree, the next — it's a traveler on the wind. No ceremony. No warning. Just a simple release. That’s when I finally understand what death really means.
“You’re becoming morbid,” my best friend Sara says later that evening, her coffee cup creating perfect rings on my kitchen table. The kettle whistles behind us, and rain taps against the window like hesitant fingers. “Death isn’t something to dwell on.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, avoiding my eyes.
But that’s exactly what we all do, isn’t it? Death sits with us during morning coffee, its chair is always empty but never vacant. It rides shotgun on late-night drives, humming along to forgotten radio songs. It lingers in the spaces between goodbyes, in the caught breath before “I love you.” We run from it, build paper fortresses against it, and fill our days with noise to drown out its whispers.
