The hardest thing to write about
Well, that’s not entirely true.
I can write about death all day.
Until it becomes personal.
Then, I really don’t know what to
say about it at all.
Sure, I can write a story about
the Grim Reaper coming into
someone’s bedroom late in the night,
waking up the soon to be departed,
having a chat about their life,
smoking a cigarette, and whisking the
soul to heaven.
No problem. Story practically writes
itself. But it’s tougher when it’s personal.
It’s not some mythological creature of
legend shrouded in a ragged black hood reaching
out with a bony hand. It’s certainly not as
dramatic as all that.
There’s no special effects.
When someone dies.
It’s awkward. It’s uncomfortable. It’s sad.
It’s cruel. It’s inevitable.
Albeit, sometimes too soon; enhancing the cruelty.
It’s random, yet so targeted. And leaves so
many in its melancholy wake to wonder, to mourn,
to grieve, and cry. And I still don’t know what to say.
I’ve been going to funerals
since before I could walk. Death has been
constant in my life and it is nothing new.
In fact, it’s sort of old hat. Occurring with
such regularity that I’m almost bored with
it, or maybe, tired of it. Yes, I’m tired of
I’ll get out the black suit. I’ll say my prayers.
I’ll kneel, sit, eulogize, and wish to God
that I could just go home and get
back to normal. I’m tired of the
bully that death can be. I’m tired
of the saint death can be.
I’m tired of trying to figure it out.
I’ll pay my respects for the living,
the survivors of death, the family,
the friends. I’ll say that I’m sorry.
I’ll say that it’ll be okay, in time.
And it’ll be true.
Yet tinged with the mechanical motions
of a seasoned professional mourner.
With nothing original to say.
Death not only robs us of a loved one
but it robs us of the right words to say,
to write, to sing, the chance for new memories
before the old ones fade away.
That’s why it’s so hard to write about.
That’s why I’m not sure what this is about.