Sugar, no cream, is how Death takes their tea, out of the pink plastic cup from my tea set. They lift a pinkie as I put together a plate of mud pie with rose petals for garnish. No one believed me when I mentioned the guest at my tea party, but that never stopped them from attending each and every one.  
 
I don't know when I was able to see them; I simply always have. What I do know is the moment I realized I couldn't speak about them.  
 
It was one of my mother's many dinner parties filled with men who stunk of smoke and women who never smiled with their eyes. It was an offhand comment, asking for more sugar in Death's tea. I swear, everyone paused and stared, but still no one gave them more sugar.  
 
After that day, our parties were held in secret and truly it was for the best. I was never one for sharing. Plus, adults always found a way to spoil small joys. I would not allow them to take this one away from me.  
 
Death was my only friend, always there with me in the gardens, sipping their tea with sugar, no cream.  
 
Over the years, our chats became a constant, though the circumstances were always changing. Tears were brushed away over sandy scones in the gardens, and fright-filled nights were soothed with warm tea that only we could see. Those same pink plastic cups and matching pinkies pointed to the stars, Death's company was always the warmest.  
 
I've had other guests before, they weren't all accepting of my invitation and many who did were less than gracious guests, but Death was a delight every time. Even when they brought a guest of their own.  
 
The first was a small butterfly, its wing ripped away but it still floated gently in the air. Then it was a mouse whose body was found earlier in one of the traps my mother had left out. Earlier guests were always small creatures, but quickly they grew. 
 
I first met my grandmother at one of our tea parties. She was a stern woman, much like my mother, I assume she taught her everything she knew. She scoffed at the plastic tea cups and the small mud pies, this time decorated with pine needles and fallen leaves. She was by far my least favorite, too much like my mother. Worse, actually, because she actually accepted the invitation.  
 
One of my favorites was a being I've come to call It. I've heard much about It growing up, but one day, they came to join Death and me in the gardens. They had trouble pointing their pinkie, but they were lively company, always laughing. I never knew why mother refused to talk about them. All I ever heard about them that wasn't rushed whispers away from polite company was 5 words from my father: Just get rid of It.  
 
Sugar, no cream, is how Death takes their tea, out of the pink plastic cup from my tea set. They lift a pinkie as I put together a plate of mud pie with rose petals for garnish. No one believed me when I mentioned the guest at my tea party, but that never stopped them from attending each and every one.  
 
I don't know when I was able to see them; I simply always have. What I do know is the moment I realized I couldn't speak about them.  
 
It was one of my mother's many dinner parties filled with men who stunk of smoke and women who never smiled with their eyes. It was an offhand comment, asking for more sugar in Death's tea. I swear, everyone paused and stared, but still no one gave them more sugar.  
 
After that day, our parties were held in secret, and truly, it was for the best. I was never one for sharing. Plus, adults always found a way to spoil small joys. I would not allow them to take this one away from me.  
 
Death was my only friend, always there with me in the gardens, sipping their tea with sugar, no cream.  
 
Over the years, our chats became a constant, though the circumstances were always changing. Tears were brushed away over sandy scones in the gardens, and fright-filled nights were soothed with warm tea that only we could see. Those same pink plastic cups and matching pinkies pointed to the stars; Death's company was always the warmest.  
 
I've had other guests before; they weren't all accepting of my invitation, and many who did were less than gracious guests, but Death was a delight every time. Even when they brought a guest of their own.  
 
The first was a small butterfly, one of its wings ripped away, but it still floated gently in the air. Then it was a mouse whose body was found earlier in one of the traps my mother had left out. Earlier guests were always small creatures, but quickly they grew. 
 
I first met my grandmother at one of our tea parties. She was a stern woman, much like my mother; I assume she taught her everything she knew. She scoffed at the plastic tea cups and the small mud pies, this time decorated with pine needles and fallen leaves. She was by far my least favorite, too much like my mother. Worse, actually, because she actually accepted the invitation.  
 
One of my favorites was a being I've come to call It. I've heard much about It growing up, but one day, they came to join Death and me in the gardens. They had trouble pointing their pinkie, but they were lively company, always laughing and sharing their gummy smile. I never knew why mother refused to talk about them. All I ever heard about them that wasn't rushed whispers away from polite company was 5 words from my father: Just get rid of It. 
 
It wasn't supposed to meet Death so soon. They had barely taken their first strained breath before they lay in Death's arms. It believes it's unfair; they are trapped in such a small state. As I grew, I could feel their jealousy looming over me. There was so much It couldn't experience, but fortunately for them, I could come back to share the tale. It's what any loving sister could do. Over the years, many guests joined me for tea, but my favorite days were just Death, It, and me. 
Now, I am far too old, far older than my mother, her mother, but most importantly, I am growing too old for this world. Death has always found a way to be by my side, but now, I am moving towards them. 
 
Truly, I am not scared. Why would I? Death is my friend, and they always will be. It is my turn to join them for tea. 
 
As I lay in this bed, light so blinding and sheets too scratchy and stiff, I am surrounded by so many familiar and loving faces, but it's death's warm presence that brings a smile to my face in those last moments. 
 
I take their hand and for the first time in years, I am once again that small girl, sitting in the garden with my friend, enjoying a nice cup of tea; just sugar, no cream.