The hardest
thing to write about
is death.
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
death.
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.
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