Remembering The Dead

A song trips up a memory of someone who is no longer here. He was a friend, maybe not a close friend, but someone I would wrap my arms around and give a squeeze to, someone I would ask how they were, with genuine interest. I believe this constitutes as a friend. When someone dies – that word – dies. I thought of a different way to write it, as if saying something more preachy makes the fact that someone died less horrible to hear. He passed away. He is in a better place. He sits with God. He is in Heaven. Say what you must, sugar coat it anyway you need to, this friend is dead.

When someone dies suddenly, it’s as if a band aide, we didn’t even know we were wearing, has been ripped off. Underneath is a wound we hadn’t expected, nor know how to react to. Our bodies pour out in anger, fear, disbelief. Grieving was not in the plans, our souls bleed, the wound won’t be healing anytime soon. Maybe it will never heal completely.

Years later, I find myself thinking about him at random. His name drifts off of someone else’s conversation, tangling into my thoughts for days to follow. I start to wondering if my life would be different if they were still here. Would he be married? Kids? Where would he be living? Would we be friends? Would I be able to stalk him on social media and see if he was still handsome? Silly ideas, that will never have a chance to play out.

There are several people who have died that I still think about without warning. I get hung up, thinking about what they would say about a situation I was in. An old memory plays fresh in my mind, like it was yesterday my Grandfather was spitting watermelon seeds at me and blaming it on a tricky fox.

I like to think remembering these things makes those that died a little more connected to earth. Sending this out to the universe, may you find some comfort knowing I still think of him too.