When Death Knocks Twice and You Refuse to Answer by Olivia Salter / Literary Poetry

When Death Knocks Twice and You Refuse to Answer

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 283

​The first time, he came as a whisper—
a creak in the floorboards,
a shadow flickering in the corner of my eye.
I thought it was the wind.
But the wind doesn't sigh like that.

​I turned my face to the sun.
"I'm not done," I said,
clutching the thread
of one more day with my laugh
still echoing down the hall.

​He left without protest,
only a glance—
not cruel, not kind—
as if to say,
You'll remember me later.

​And I did.
He returned not in shadow
but in the mirror—
in the gray under my eyes,
in my mother's hand trembling
when she passed me the salt,
in the silence
that pressed against my ribs
while the world kept spinning.
​He knocked again.
Harder.
This time, with names:
Jerome.
Aunt Vi.
Even the baby we never met.

​But I stood still,
not with anger,
but with fire.

"There are stories left in me," I said,
"and a garden in the back
that still needs weeding.
There's a boy I haven't forgiven
for leaving without goodbye,
and a prayer I owe my father
before the light fades."

​He waited—
and walked away.
No slam.
No scorn.
Just the echo
of my breathing
filling the room like a promise.

​And I,
anchored by pulse and purpose,
held on.
Not for fear—
but for the unfinished
love still growing
beneath my skin.

​Each morning, I rise
to pull the stubborn weeds,
carrying memories
like river-stones in my pockets,
reminders of the miles yet to tread.

​When death knocks again,
he'll find me at the spade,
hands stained with earth,
the grit of the garden in my teeth,
refusing even to turn the lock.

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