It’s funny, this thing called life; hilarious actually, the way we rush in, sometimes unexpectedly, flesh and blood hitting the air in a sterile room or some cracked leather backseat. We live, we grow like weeds, we take breaths and comb our hair. We work and play and we listen to the tales of our elders, we learn of the darkness, we learn to fear it while we dig our claws deep into the light. We fear what we can’t see, that open-ended intersection between now and then. Now is all warmth and baked bread and laughter in the hallway; then is quiet and eternal reflection. Is it a better place, this then? Is there soft Jazz and the sounds of a summer’s night? When I go will my family find me? “Rage,” he said. And so we rage.
It can’t be so bad, this aftermath. When your insides grow dark and your spirit is tripping on the sidewalk cracks you welcome a vacation from the sirens and the reruns. No crackling television, no crowded subway, no hunger. Just comfort, just music, just love. We hope.
When death comes to visit it lays a hand on the shoulders of those closest to the lost one, sometimes with a message attached; “You too,” it whispers, and “soon”. It smells human surrender from the moment the heart breaks.
Just last year my Uncle Steve lost his daughter. Rachel. This past Saturday my Uncle/Godfather lost his battle with cancer. I remember a man full of life, brimming with heart and soul. My Uncle, my Godfather, our love; he is in a place away from the chaos.