Not too long ago, a friend and I took an extended tea break from work and we had ourselves a lovely conversation which I appreciated and much needed. Somewhere in there, in passing, I mentioned how I wouldn’t mind dying now. And it’s the truth. There’s nothing morbid about that. I really do feel blessed to be able to say that I could die today and I would die happy. Life has been good to me, mostly, and if I were to breath my last, I hope those I matter to, and those who matter to me would be at peace knowing, I have no regrets.
That being said, what my acceptance of my own death does not leave room for is to hear of others passing on. Today, under an hour ago, I learned of an old classmate dying. Of a heart attack. At 25. There’s not much to prepare you for that.
Were we close? At one time, yes we were. But now, with years between what bonds we had and the minimal communication over the last few years, what’s to mark his absence from this world in my life? Probably just no more updates from him on my Facebook newsfeed. It’s alarming, how people I know have come and gone and my life continues, unaffected.
Once in a while, I think about someone, like a classmate’s father who was a family friend and after going over a few memories something occurs to me, an afterthought, and I find myself going, ‘oh. He’s dead.” But it makes no difference…to me. People are born, they live, they die. Life goes on.
But when it’s someone young, someone my age—it just feels different. It feels wrong. I’m not as naive to believe death is saved for the aged, it’s struck many I know in their young, and it always feels more strange. Worse. Like someone responsible for the passing of souls into another world erred. But it’s a mistake you can’t fix. A life I once knew is gone. Lost. But there are things to remember him by…I guess that’ll have to do. That’s all that there is.
RIP I.K., you’re not forgotten.