Member-only story
A Remembrance of Sorts
Some days, I just miss the dead.
Most days, I just miss the little things. The irreplaceable, unforgettable, and unpurchasable. No matter how wealthy I become, I’ll never be able to buy back the lives of the people in those memories who have since passed. The flip side to that however is, no matter how poor I am or how little I end up with, I’ll always have those memories. And that’s a whole lot more than nothing.
Nothing was at the core of what I felt, for months after so many of those deaths. Like a profoundly deep and dark nothing. It’s like life hit my soul with a shot of novocaine to numb me from the worst of it. My being was in a state of shock, as the body after it’s been battered in a brutal accident or near-fatal crash.
For some time, years, it seemed like life was just one crash after another. One tragic, freak accident or statistically predictable event after another.
By my 21st birthday, I had been to so many funerals of people my age or younger that I didn’t understand the tears of those who cried at the loss of elderly folks who passed even semi-naturally. At least they had lived most of their lives and weren’t robbed of them suddenly and weren’t so bitter and resentful they ended them themselves.
