on death and loss
"It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.” -John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent
If I had to describe Death, I’d probably call it a ninja. It creeps up on you the way evening replaces afternoon, silently and slowly - maybe you’d know it’s coming for you, but then it pounces and you’re left feeling confused. Possibly satisfied. Probably upset.
I don’t know. I’m not very good at waxing lyrical about my feelings.
But Death is also a thief, and Death will steal away the people and animals you love and the tears you shed for them; Death will trip over your metaphorical heart and break it in the process. It’s hard to mend the cracks in a broken object when it’s never been real; every time the tears flow the cracks widen just a little bit more and you can’t do anything but watch the wounds open.
Maybe they’ll widen when you step into the house and you call out for him, but calling for him is calling for the dead. Maybe they’ll run a little further when it’s evening and your family members start flooding into the house but you can’t hear the barking and you can’t hear the sound of his tail smacking the door. Maybe a new crack will appear when you’re leaving the house and it’s customary to say goodbye to everybody, but then there’s a gaping hole in the string of names you’re saying goodbye to and suddenly you want to choke but you can’t because people are watching you.
Scotch tape isn’t really effective. Neither is super glue.
I first got acquainted with Death when I was eleven. My uncle died in August; one month later, my grandfather followed him as if he were following a trail of stones made by Hansel and Gretel. (My grandfather died on my sister’s birthday. Tragic.)
Now that I’m fifteen, I’m old enough to realise that all things have to step into Death’s garden one day. They said third time’s the charm. They never said the third time you lose something to Death, it still hurts as much as somebody punching your chest with an iron fist and that it still hurts as much as the headaches you get from crying too much. It hurts so much to know that death was the better alternative for a dog (our dog) who was suffering so much after rounds and rounds of medicine and surgery and struggling to stay awake even when he was asleep.
But they did say that the tears eventually run dry. Maybe they will. Just not tonight.
[For my family’s dog, and for all the good times he’s given us; thank you so much. I’m sorry for disturbing your sleep when I was a young and stupid child. I hope nobody disturbs your sleep up there. It’s the best I can say.]
If I had to describe Death, I’d probably call it a ninja. It creeps up on you the way evening replaces afternoon, silently and slowly - maybe you’d know it’s coming for you, but then it pounces and you’re left feeling confused. Possibly satisfied. Probably upset.
I don’t know. I’m not very good at waxing lyrical about my feelings.
But Death is also a thief, and Death will steal away the people and animals you love and the tears you shed for them; Death will trip over your metaphorical heart and break it in the process. It’s hard to mend the cracks in a broken object when it’s never been real; every time the tears flow the cracks widen just a little bit more and you can’t do anything but watch the wounds open.
Maybe they’ll widen when you step into the house and you call out for him, but calling for him is calling for the dead. Maybe they’ll run a little further when it’s evening and your family members start flooding into the house but you can’t hear the barking and you can’t hear the sound of his tail smacking the door. Maybe a new crack will appear when you’re leaving the house and it’s customary to say goodbye to everybody, but then there’s a gaping hole in the string of names you’re saying goodbye to and suddenly you want to choke but you can’t because people are watching you.
Scotch tape isn’t really effective. Neither is super glue.
I first got acquainted with Death when I was eleven. My uncle died in August; one month later, my grandfather followed him as if he were following a trail of stones made by Hansel and Gretel. (My grandfather died on my sister’s birthday. Tragic.)
Now that I’m fifteen, I’m old enough to realise that all things have to step into Death’s garden one day. They said third time’s the charm. They never said the third time you lose something to Death, it still hurts as much as somebody punching your chest with an iron fist and that it still hurts as much as the headaches you get from crying too much. It hurts so much to know that death was the better alternative for a dog (our dog) who was suffering so much after rounds and rounds of medicine and surgery and struggling to stay awake even when he was asleep.
But they did say that the tears eventually run dry. Maybe they will. Just not tonight.
[For my family’s dog, and for all the good times he’s given us; thank you so much. I’m sorry for disturbing your sleep when I was a young and stupid child. I hope nobody disturbs your sleep up there. It’s the best I can say.]