Death is a funny thing. For most of us, while we’re aware that it happens, that it’s a natural part of life, when it does happen we still feel like we’ve had the rug pulled out from underneath us. Suddenly our once stable and predictable world feels more like something Alice found on her way to Wonderland. And nevermind all the logistics involved with religion. Who’s going which way and when and why and is it a good thing and is it a bad thing. We go around saying things like, “he passed away last night,” because saying he died is too raw. Too real. Saying, “he died,” makes you deal with the fact that you now live in a world where your mother, father, uncle, grandpa, friend, cousin doesn’t. And for some of us that’s unfathomable. How is this person who has always been in your life just not anymore? It’s ridiculous.
In junior high a classmate died. We were loose friends – ran in the same-ish circles, hung out occasionally. A few weeks after her funeral I remember walking through Marsh and looking at the tabloids and realizing that she would never know that Tori Spelling was leaving 90210. Never. And it just seemed, absurd. I mean, how can she just not be here anymore? How can she not know this stupid, inconsequential thing? And how am I just going on about my life, running errands, going to school, learning things she’ll never learn? Things she’ll never get the chance to learn.
On Friday night my uncle died. It hasn’t hit me yet, not really. A part of me is unwilling to accept that this funny, larger than life, irreverent in the best possible way man won’t be there on Sunday when I walk through the same door I’ve been walking through to see him for the past 29 years. That he won’t be cracking jokes or telling me about how he discovered Mumford and Sons and aren’t they just the best doesn’t seem like a possibility.
I mean, it’s unfathomable, really.