A young man died this week.
That’s the cold, hard truth. On the surface, he was simply a name and a picture in a newspaper notice to some, and a statistic and a number to others. But to those who loved him, he was a bright light whose glow can never be offset by comforting words or cherished memories. Their light will be forever dimmed by his loss.
The grieving process is endlessly fascinating to me; the devastation that death brings unravels our lives in an instant and sends us scrambling to comfort one another. We spout the same lines over and over, “He’s in a better place. He looks so peaceful. He’d want us to carry on.”, they’re all a part of the social convention we’ve been programmed to adopt.
Life is a raging river, and if we stop and stand still we may be able to feel it coursing by us, but by failing to flow with it we negate its majesty.
If the dead could speak to the living one final time, I like to believe one word would resonate the loudest…