Before the fall

(originally posted 1/21/2010)

It’s a strange thing to wait for Death. A morbid little waltz comprised of hushed phone calls and staccato words. Life, in its normal order, is put on pause or tidied up in preparation for something that can’t be prepared for-- not really. Deadlines and plans hang in a strange state of flux, waiting to fall or shift or be postponed.

And while all are aware of the reason for the shuffle from routine and the impending sense of change, Death is rarely addressed by name. It is talked around and through but rarely about.

Death is never expected, even when it is. Even when we know it is coming-- even when we have accepted that it is, in some ways, best. It never fails to surprise, as it works with lazy precision to shatter familiarity like glass.

It arrives, in these instances, like a tardy and indifferent guest of honor. There is never enough fanfare for the one it has come for, never sufficient farewells. Even when there is.

Sudden death, obviously, is different. The inconvenience of it all is blunted by the shock. There’s no time to fret about the periphery details. “When should I get my plane tickets?” “How much work will I miss?” “What will we do with the kids?” Those things don’t matter because the violence of the moment shows us that they don’t. We only process that we must go, that it is necessary, that we are needed. Those other, lesser worries fall to their rightful place in line, though they must still be addressed.

But when death is prolonged, they work their way uncomfortably into the conversation. They rage against their displacement from the natural hierarchy of your concerns. They refuse to be ignored, and the guilt they bring with that refusal is greasy and unforgiving. How can we be worried about a project at work even as we wait for the phone to ring with anticipated bad news? How can we be preparing clothes for a funeral that has yet to have a body? How can we live the mundane details of a life while death is so near?

But that’s the thing about life; It goes on. Even in the midst of death. Even when it’s inconvenient or lacking in poetry. Even when it seems wrong.

Strange and inappropriate thoughts persist because even as death looms, life looms larger. And while it may seem crass, it’s also strangely beautiful. There’s grace in the mundane, and hope lives inside each moment which strives to reclaim that which is typical. We go on. We pause, we mourn. But we go on.

That’s life. And death too, I suppose.