Let’s talk about relationships, life and death, time, distance, ashes and renewal.
My cousin, who lived to be three months old, will never make it to four months. Her body labored, quivered, and finally faltered beneath the weight of having been born prematurely.
She passed away.
I’m saddened, of course, but it’s certainly not the same loss that my uncle and his wife are experiencing now. They are mourning for the loss of their child; a child they will never know but will always question the possibilities that once lay before them. They will wonder forever at what might have been.
Of course, that is one of the reasons that losing someone at a young age is so difficult. We are left to wonder what things might have been later in life, or what potential might have existed.
I know a girl who talks to her mother every day, even though they are separated by several states and hundreds of miles. There is a connection there, though, and that is from knowing someone for an entire life. The relationship still changes and still grows. Even after a lifetime of knowing each other, even with distance, they can choose to learn something about one another. This is the magic of parent-child relationships. But the true magic exists in something more simple and fundamental: As humans, we strive to maintain these relationships. We need them.
You see, each of our relationships provides us with at least one thing that we need, be it a connection to our past, companionship, comfort, love, satisfaction, peace. Take your pick. Whatever it may be, it’s there, or we wouldn’t be so adamant about maintaining these relationships and keeping these people in our lives.
My cousin died having never known my face or my name. She will never experience the touch of my hand upon her cheek. She will never know the sound of my guitar, or my voice and the way I would have sang her to sleep. I’m mourning the loss of a potential friend. A little girl that I could have mentored and loved; someone I could have protected and taught right from wrong.
Grief is a funny thing. I’m well experienced at it; I know the signs, the symptoms, the problems and the things to avoid. I’ve been to twelve funerals, and I’m sure I’ll attend many more through out my lifetime. I’ve gotten good at dealing with the loss of someone close.
Have you ever been driving and suddenly realized you have to sneeze? Do you remember the first time you ever had to sneeze while you were driving? Of course you do. There was even the slightest moment of panic, as you realized your eyes were going to be closed as you are driving sixty miles per hour.
Grief is a lot like that. You can only keep your eyes open for so long before you have to close them and hope for the best. You try and get everything lined up just right, make some last second corrections and decisions, maybe you get through it just fine; but it’s possible you’re going to crash in to the guard rail. If it’s unfamiliar territory, you may not think to set your mind and, unquestionably, you’re going to hit that guard rail. It’s going to hurt. A lot.
I imagine that that is where my uncle is right now.
I’ve been there. I’ve been to the deep, dark, clandestine recesses inside of my soul. It’s that place that we’re afraid to look; where everything around us becomes warped and distorted. Things lose their perspective and every movement, every thought and every hope and dream is a monumental effort. We learn to overlook everything good around us, and wallow in our self pity and ruminations. Climbing back out can take a miracle, and very few people do so without making a fair number of mistakes in the process.
I was no exception, years ago.
A long time ago, a friend of mine said that I was the type of person to stand on the railroad tracks just to see what it felt like to get hit by the train. Ten years later, and I’m still sitting up at 4am when I should be sleeping. I’m still writing, even despite myself. And for all the questions I’ve asked myself, for all the philosophy and theology that I’ve studied from greater men, for all the dead who are too many to count, and the living that stand in the light… I still feel like I’m standing on the tracks, waiting for the answers to come and find me.