Member-only story
WriteHere, Death, Creativity, MWC Death, Miscellaneous
Do Not Die Before I Stop Talking!
My 47-year-old father’s death crushed me harder than anything I saw while I was in Vietnam.
Cemeteries are the landlords of our lifeless bodies. Inside each casket, you will find a lifetime of memories, if only the residents could talk. For many of us, they also contain the answers to many unspoken questions.
You can stroll through any of these in the daytime and find them nearly empty of human visitors. I have always thought it was because we who mourn them must go on with our lives.
Death is no stranger to any of us. We have all lost someone who was near and dear to us to that faceless, scythe-carrying ghost, the Grim Reaper. It seems to be a haphazard canvassing of a variety of ages, skin colors, rich, and indigent “luck of the draw” that has no set qualifications and no defined boundaries.
I wasn’t finished talking with him!
In my life span, I have seen more than my fair share of death, and its consequences.
- When I was 6, I saw my father’s mother at the funeral home.
- When I was 12, and again at 14, I lost two uncles and two aunts…
