Death is like this

Death is like the moment a computer turns off.  The machine is humming and whirring and warm underneath fingers that hover over the keyboard.  Hitting the shut down key, all instantly stops as energy seeps away.  There are no residual whirs or clicks and the keyboard quickly and steadily grows colder.  Death was like that with my mom.  One moment she was On, humming and whirring and warm in my hand in the hospice.  The next moment she was Off, deafeningly silent, growing colder by the second in my tightened, desperate embrace.

Death is like myth creation.  The story of the moment of dying becomes its own epic tale, complete with heroes and villains, Truths told and lies forgiven.  The deathbed becomes a beggar's ditch or a pristine family tomb depending on the telling.  Death was like that with my dad.  His story became a white knight legend, with him as the hero bravely fighting cancer as the villain.  He was laid to rest in untouchable perfect memory, beyond reproach from the dirty realities of the chemo that wasted his already small frame, putting him to sleep while he smoked on the toilet, leaving so many cigarette burns that the linoleum had to be replaced.

Death is like lovesick yearning.  It is a memoir to all of the things that will never be.  The first dates, the Proms, the championship games and valedictory addresses.  The unfulfilled potential of creation in the form of art, memories, children that will never happen hangs cloying in the air.  There is a hunger that can not be filled no matter how many tears and silver lining moments are shoved into the gaping maw where yearning resides.  Death was like that for my camper when it came for her at 13.  She railed and fought, but it took her anyway and all that's left is the yearning for a woman the world will never have a chance to know.

Death is like a constant companion.  Always there whether it is welcome or not.  There are some days it feels easier to accept it.  Life is difficult and giving up is easy.  But there are other days numbering in the thousands upon thousands that it isn't true and our hearts know this.  The part where it feels easy is just a trick that Death can play.  Death was like that with my friend.  It hung around in the background, always available and seemingly so God damned easy.  That constant companion took over her life and was so needy that she didn't even notice her son anymore.  She forgot about the days numbering in the thousands upon thousands and only cared about dying.  She gave death a final embrace and left the rest of us behind.  And death, that fickle bastard, went off to find someone else.

Death is like guilt.  Its presence in life reminds us constantly that we are still here while someone else is not.  The relief of grief, the gratitude that someone else has died and we've been spared at least at this point in our journey can't be denied, even though we will lie to ourselves about it anyway.  Compounding the existential guilt are the reflections on our behaviors during those last moments.  All the shoulda woulda couldas that can send us into a tailspin of guilt riddled agony.  Death has been like that for me many times.  Should I have called more?  Did they know how much I loved them?  Should I have spent more time?  Is there ever enough time?  Will I ever be enough during my time here?  Will I figure it out before death comes for me?

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