Death is what Shi Tiesheng called “a matter not to be rushed, an inevitable festival that will
come.
” Tagore described it as “Let life be beautiful like summer flowers, and death like autumn
leaves.
” In The Three-Body Problem, it is “an eternal lighthouse—no matter where you sail, you
will eventually turn toward it.
”
When I was small, death was only words in books or on the news—far away, like something
that could never touch me. In fairy tales, heroes might die, but I could turn the page and see them
alive again. Even in school, history lessons mentioned death only as numbers and dates, never as
real people or voices.
Then came that winter when my grandpa passed away, and the word “death”
, suddenly became
real. Grandpa always sat in a worn bamboo chair in our yard, roasting peanuts in an old black
wok. The warm, nutty smell floated into my room. In his thick Shaanxi accent, he would call,
“Lai sang ha Xian Huasheng!” (“Kid, come eat peanuts!”) I ran over, slippers slapping against the
stone ground, stepping on cracked shells. He handed me hot peanuts, their skins soft from the
steam. Sometimes I burned my tongue, and he laughed, his eyes crinkling.
Even after he was gone, his voice stayed with me. I could hear him in quiet mornings, calling me
from the yard, reminding me to eat more, to wear my coat. The bamboo chair was still there, the
black wok still hung on the wall, and the smell of roasted peanuts seemed to linger—but he was
no longer there. At the funeral, surrounded by the stories and tears, the yard felt quieter than ever.
That was when I first realized: the hardest part of losing someone isn’t just that they’re gone—it’s
knowing that their voice, their presence, their little habits now eventually exist only in memory.
Grandpa’s love, his laughter and the way he cared for me became part of me, engraved in small
moments that I carry forward.
As I grew older, my understanding of death changed. At first, I thought it only took people away.
Later, I realized it also gives every moment weight and meaning. If life went on forever, I might
not have run to the yard so quickly, or held that warm peanut a second longer before eating it.
Death is not just an ending—it sharpens life, makes it more precious. As Norwegian Wood said,
“Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it that endures forever.
”
Now I imagine death as someone quietly waiting outside my door. One day, they will stand and
say,
“It’s time.
” I think I will feel a small rush, but no fear. I will take one last look around,
making sure I’ve left something behind—a story, a smell, an echo of my voice in someone’s
memory. The distance between me and death isn't something I can measure in years or days. It
shifts every time I watch the sunset or hear friends laugh until they cannot breathe. When that
distance is gone, I hope I will stay in the smell of peanuts roasting in a winter yard, in the sound
of summer rain, or in the ring of a bicycle bell on a quiet street. I hope I will stay somewhere, insomeone's memory, for just a little longer.