随风而去
The nights must be hard, as they always are. The only thing harder to do than let go of the dead is to comfort the living. What does one do? What does one say? In us all we know the truth, which is that one leaves and never comes back, and there will be no more loud shrieks or shrill voices that wake you up in the morning, nobody to cook your food or wash the clothes or clean the house, as there have been for half your life. It is hard not to speak or think of these things, even though speaking or thinking them lead us to inevitable despair. One after the other they all fall, like toy soldiers, and the rest of us are left to pick up the pieces till the end of our own lives.
I did not know about the love story, and it surprised and dismayed me, how I knew so little about those so close to me. It seemed that everyone had a story, one of those great dramatic ones, and it made me realise how many of us amplify our own pain. Our experiences. Our loves and hates. I’d thought it was an exclusively teenage thing. It appears that it is not.
As I walked through those halls and came out in tears, again, for the second time in 5 weeks, there were so many people. All grieving. The same rites. A shared furnace. The fire in the hole. The flowers — the endless flowers. Relatives, sons, daughters, carrying picture frames out. We had to be herded like a tour group for fear of getting mixed up. Too often death is an everyday business. It does not consider the living. I was slightly comforted. It was everywhere.
I hope this will be the last time in a long time. My heart aches for the old man whose lover has passed. There have been too many things happening, and not enough time to breathe. I would like to be strong, as I am, most of the time. But when the storm comes, it would be best to have someone hold me close, and I should not have to say that I am weak.
- May 13 2012 | - Read More →
