"The hour of departure has arrived,
and we go our separate ways,
I to die, and you to live.
Which of these two is better only God knows."
-- Socrates
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| A matter of life and death (spray paint on paper) 2-5-14 |
"There are moments when a rope's end, a pole, the branch of the tree, is life itself,
and it is a frightful thing to see a living being lose his hold upon it,
and fall like a ripe fruit."
-- Victor Hugo
Sometimes death can be a good thing.
Death can be merciful, granting release to someone who has suffered long enough.
Death can be gentle, quietly creeping in on cat's feet during the night to claim its victim without disturbing them from their slumber.
Death can be patient, waiting until the end of a long and full life -- until the affairs are in order, until the apologies are made, until the final sweet words are whispered -- before exacting its due.
But sometimes, death is a bad thing, the worst thing.
Sometimes death is a hard, cold, cruel son of a bitch. Sometimes death is a mean motherfucker that shows up uninvited and unexpected, barging in unannounced and way off schedule, and trashes the place.
My friend Maria's husband died a couple of days ago, suddenly and unexpectedly. His name was Raj, which, fittingly, means "royalty." Raj was young and vibrant and interesting and intelligent and active. Raj cultivated intricate, exquisite bonsai trees. Raj was not suffering. He was traveling in India, where he was born, visiting family, which he loved. Raj was a beautiful, elegant, caramel-colored man with a brilliant smile and waves of glossy black hair, who spoke with a soft, lilting accent that rolled roundly off his tongue like bubbles in a brook.
Out of the clear blue, Raj had a heart attack, and Raj died.
From where I stand, nothing about Raj's death looks like a good thing.
Except maybe this.
Since I heard the news, which saddened me deeply, I've felt tenderer toward my husband and my boys. I've found myself feeling a little more patient -- a little gentler, a little kinder, a little sweeter. I laugh more. I say thank you more often. When there was news of yet another school closing today, I didn't bristle. I felt honestly glad that Leo and I get another whole day together and looked up movies for us to see. I offered to cook some of the goose that they hunted for supper -- without making a face.
Something about Raj's death is making me look more closely at my own life and the lives that are in it. It is bringing things into startling close-up and saying "Look at what you have. Take inventory. Because it could all be gone in a heartbeat."
It's not hard to find. It's right under my nose.
But sometimes you have to look hard for the good.
But sometimes you have to look hard for the good.
It's like panning for gold when the prospectors have already carted away the big nuggets, and all that's left behind are flecks of dust and it's all under water and the water's murky and there's a gaping hole in your sieve and all you can do is hope that there's still a tiny speck of something somewhere under the mud for you to put in your bag and carry home.
