More musings on Death…

It’s one of those weird days, dark, and although there are cherry blossoms dancing in the gusty wind, it feels like October or mid-December. It’s THAT kind of dark.

So, Death. What is it, what do we miss when that person ceases to exist on the same plane as the rest of us? Obviously, I can’t answer for anyone but me, but if anyone cares to know…

It’s a vast tear in the fabric of the universe, a vacuum where none should be able to exist, a hollow, empty place where once that person lived and breathed and smiled and spoke.  I can touch that cold, empty shell, but the person is not there. It’s a cheat, a likeness of the person with nothing to animate it. That “thing” that soul, that animus is gone, whether on wings or heavenly clouds or just evaporation, it’s gone. And we are left, bereft of that presence in our lives.

Oh, sure, people can tell us that time heals all, or it gets better, or you’re only missing the times you’ve had, but I’m here to tell you that they’re wrong. I miss the people, their voices, their conversation, the look, the smell, the sound of them in my life. I miss the everyday comfort of them. And for me, there is no healing and it doesn’t get better. When I allow myself to think on this or that person (be it furred or un-), it’s just as raw, as bloody a wound as it ever was. The breath catches in the throat, the tears burn their way down the cheeks like a lava flow and it’s sheer misery all over again.

The ONLY thing that changes over time is that the mind, in an effort to keep from going crazy, eventually allows the constant thoughts of the deceased to recede a bit from the very front row of  life. After a time, you suddenly realize that you’ve gone a minute, an hour, a day without agonizing over them. And then the guilt sweeps in, that perhaps you’ve forgotten them. Nothing could be further from the truth. Putting them in your second row is protective. Else, how many of us would simply die of despair? It’s like putting letters in a box, so you don’t have to see them all the time.

But oh, that pain is still fresh, the blood still bright and coppery on my tongue.

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