If death is inevitable, grieving such a large part of life, if loss and disappointment reign on earth as it rains on humankind again and again and again, is it safe, logical to ignore its powerful presence?
What of the woman-child who writes to us of a murder-suicide and three still borns, a mother who died from ALS? Without depth of understanding, or the ignoring of death's patient lesson, the best we can do is respond to her pages and pages with "That's a long letter."
Why do the dying man's words carry such weight, he being deemed a prophet by the living?
Why do we love and admire deepest when death is closest?
What of the boy-man entrenched in death? Pale, skinny, fading.
The disease owns him. What of the retired professional athlete
the first day home watching a game who lilts "I can still do that."
What of the disappointment that abounds? Why do we keep it in our steel-trap minds?
Never putting the dread, the loneliness to sound.
We ignore the shaking hands, the slipping mind, the lost soul sloppily
traipsing into hell's paradise at a time when we are needed most.
Why?
Why let them fade alone, separate, tossed into the back room out of sight?
Why not bring their black hole existence something to eat, some light?
"Love each other or parish."
We all die, but do we all need to parish? Best to die with family in the home. Never work so hard at selfishness that your death dance is alone, sight unseen, a prison for the un-beeing.
Keep them close, their eyes upon your closing eyes, your spiritual security.
Never die alone, dying without family, no children, the emptiness unbearable.
Don't die alone.
Die with kisses, and jokes, comfortable crouchings by the side of the bed from daughter, son,
mother . . .
Hands lifting leaving hands.
Don't die alone.
That was never meant to be how it's done. Take your children with you as they toss you to eternity with soft, gentle hands to dying hands. The dead are forever quickened. Eternity's secret. Keep it so, for it is a lesson too great to not be earned
