Grief is one big, gaping hole, isn’t it? It’s everywhere and all consuming. Some days you think you can’t go on because the only thing waiting for you is more despair. Some days you don’t want to go on because it’s easier to give up than to get hurt again.
He died when he was only nineteen years old. I was still a baby at the time, so I didn’t remember him. Growing up, I’d always told myself that was lucky. Because you can’t miss someone you don’t remember.
But the truth was, I did miss him.
Right away, death is word-eating.
It hurts when they’re gone. And it doesn’t matter if it’s slow or fast, whether it’s a long drawn-out disease or an unexpected accident. When they’re gone the world turns upside down and you’re left holding on, trying not to fall off.
Death never pierces the heart so much as when it takes someone we love; cleaving the heart they held with their passing.
It was the sound of a thousand hungry children crying, ten thousand widows tearing their hair over their husband’s graves, a chorus of angels singing the last dirge on the day of God’s death.
They lost the hope of a better relationship with him when he died. They don’t want to remember the truth right now.
Lucky is the spouse who dies first, who never has to know what survivors endure.
My mother’s family is passionate about visiting and cleaning the graves of their deceased. Once a year, the Peeks and the Nolens would gather to clean the tombstones and plant flowers at the grave sites of their people. Once, in Piedmont, when I was a little boy, I was helping to clean a grave of an ancestor of my grandfather named Jerry Mire Peek. When I asked my cousin Clyde whom this unknown relation was named after, he said, “He was named after the prophet Jerry Mire.
At sunset the little soul that had come with the dawning went away, leaving heartbreak behind it