Remember Death
I went to the sea to commemorate a death anniversary. If I’m being honest, I did not connect with my grief much. I did stare out the window a lot, watching the tide. I read, and actually focused on the words for hours at a time without checking my phone (it so happened that I was reading Jennette McCurdy’s I’m Glad My Mom Died). I saw whale spouts from the shore and gasped each time, thinking: we’re breathing the same air, we’re breathing the same air. I ate steamed clams and visited the shops and I thought I was being careful, but by the time I got home, I was sick. I’ve been sick for about a week now.
I have not felt this rotten in quite some time and I can’t help but to reflect on what it means to me to have this sickness now. To reflect on the intelligence of my body, sidled up next to the frailty of it. I know that I’m going to be alright. This time, at least. I know that I can look forward to relief, because I know I’ll recover. Because I’m medically protected against dying from this and I am lucky to not be immunocompromised, I’m able to cope at home. My body is housing a virus that has taken and threatened so, so many lives. Even with my faucet nose, my sore ribs, my pitiful cracked voice, I’m afforded the privilege of having an able body to return to.
I know this isn’t a given. I know that—provided I’m don’t meet my end in a sudden flash—there will come a time later on down the road when I’m going to feel my body breaking down in response to some illness. One of these times I get sick, it will be the last time, and a may or may not know it. “Relief” will be synonymous with “empty”, with feeling nothing at all. Rather than looking forward to everything I’ll be able to do once I am well, I’ll be looking into the yawning mouth of the greatest mystery there is, that which is utterly unknown to me.
Fear does not plague me as I consider this. Remembering death makes me feel grounded in where I am now. It makes me feel grateful, curious about the kind of days I’m going to craft for myself, what things will taste like once my senses are intact again. When I remember death, I also remember pleasure. I am brought back to the love I have for my life, and not my eventual-life, my life right now. I am here. I can reach out. I can give my pets a little snuggle. I can listen to this contemplative, wistful tune by Young Jesus coming through my speaker. I can write this down and send it out to you, a gentle and small ripple in our shared pond.
I’d like to leave you with one of my favorite poems, read by the author.