I've reached an age where it is quite normal to have experienced the death of some of my loved ones. Fortunately for me, there are very many more of them still alive. I know people who have lost more. But that doesn't matter much. As with most human experience, it is mine that matters most to me. The ability to comprehend the import of the experience of others is sometimes a little bit helpful, but more often I find, not. I've recently concluded that there is little consolation in the manner in which we mark death. Our methods of disposal don't do anything to make us feel better. Whether someone is interred or incinerated - neither seems appropriate. The thought of that body still existing, but rotting back to its constituent atoms is not in any way easier than the knowledge that the body has been destroyed. The former retains a place on earth that is somehow uncomfortable, the latter is missing, leaving no physical presence to console.
In some ways, perhaps in all ways, memory is the only true mark of the departed. Certainly, there are those who leave their offspring or their good (or bad) works behind them, but in my experience, which of course matters more to me than to you, in my experience it is in remembering that we mark the personal loss. That seems so obvious that I feel foolish typing it. From the earliest part of the process of losing someone, it is helpful to be able to remember our shared experiences. Painful too. Painful, because it reminds us that we will never again feel the pleasure of sharing an experience with that person. And that reminds us how very, very much we would like hear that laugh, feel the intensity of that hug, watch them eat with great gusto, see them make everyone in a crowded room love them just by being themselves. You'll have your own list. I could add to this one almost endlessly.
Most days, I remember something about my dear friend. For a fairly long time it often made me cry. Not often for long, but often, regardless of place. These days it sometimes makes me smile. Then I might cry. Not wracking sobs whilst I thrash on the floor, just quiet tears that slide down my face fairly unobtrusively. Or I might move on and do something else. I don't miss him less. I miss him more. This seems to be one of the great lies about death. The notion that it will get easier. That time heals. Well. it is true to some extent. I think you get more used to the feeling of loss. The pain is somewhat dimmed because it becomes a known pain and as with a slipped disc or a recurrent toothache, pain that we recognise as survivable is far less frightening than new pain, unknown pain. But it is longer since I have seen him. Too long since I talked with him. I am past the point of forgetting that he is gone and feeling guilty that I haven't called him, but I still see his picture and think I must call.
My biggest realisation... the one that I hadn't known about before, is just how much that shared experience is the whole experience. Losing someone important to you can make it feel as though huge swathes of your life may as well not have happened, since the person you shared it with is no longer around to validate your experience.I suppose I am still trying to understand this myself, certainly it is hard to explain what I mean.
Anyway. Dominic, I miss you and I love you.
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