On Death

They woke me up at eight on a Sunday morning to tell me he was gone.

I sat up and for a moment knew it had to be a dream. But the horrible grip of reality didn’t loosen on my insides, and for a few minutes I felt as empty as the hole he had once filled.

When the tears finally threatened to spill and I put my arm over my eyes and turned away the finality of it all settled. He was the kind of person that never should have died. The kind of person who really lived on forever. And I couldn’t help but think God said screw that and took him anyway.

Dying is selfish. You’re only thinking of yourself when you give in. What you’re not thinking of is how years after you left everyone will still be hurting.

He was the kind of person I looked up to because of his confidence in life. He never seemed fazed, always seemed to have a grip on everything. I wanted a part of that. He gave me his name so I could be.

I got up out of bed and yanked on some clothes. I didn’t do my make-up. I didn’t fix my hair. I grabbed my Ipod, slammed the door, and walked into the cool morning air feeling exposed and naked. The sky was thick with a grey fog separating us from heaven, but one single hole in the divide shone with muted gold. I walked and thought he was watching me through that hole.

When I got to the dam I lay down on the stone cemetery style bench and pressed my cheek against the cold. Strange that in grief there is always an overwhelming sense of clarity. As I flicked through the songs on my Ipod lyrics tattooed themselves on my mind like the gecko tattoo he had on his back.

The day, you slipped away. Was the day I found it won’t be the same. Father I will always be, that same boy that stood by the see and watched you tower over me.

Now I’m older I want to be the same as you.

That’s all I ever wanted to be. Because in the same way my daddy was like him. The same strength that I could lean on and that pulled me through everything. All I ever wanted to be in life was to be like them. My heroes.

Memories played and replayed themselves in my mind, gaining in detail and emotion each time. What does one say to make an obituary genuine?

The truth is you can’t.

Nothing you can say can ever make someone understand how much someone meant. And they can nod their heads like they get it but the truth is, they don’t. they never will.

So I guess I don’t have much more to say. I can’t make anyone understand.

I don’t have some inspirational quote he once said to me, or a painful story to tell.

 

I can only say I have to live with what happens in life. And I can’t live with myself today.

‘cause it’s not the pain I’m having trouble getting over.

 

It’s the love.