Death Is Weird
I lost an Uncle last week. It was his time. With everything he had been through in his life, the man more than earned the peace he now has. It is scary to watch generations of your family start to leave this place. My Dad's mom passed away a number of years ago and it hit me, at her funeral, which generation was next. I am no stranger to death. I am the youngest grandchild on one side, and the second youngest on the other. I was also taught at an early age by parents that you always go to the wake/funeral - it's the right thing to do. So though I have been to many funerals, as I get older they hit harder.
I am beginning to understand the concept of time. I am beginning to understand the value of time. I can see myself in more people in the room at a wake. I am learning more and more about what it means to be a husband, a son, a brother, a friend, a fellow human. I also find myself getting pickier about who I give time to since it no longer feels infinite.
Death does not scare me. Not doing the most with the time I have, does.
Death does not scare me. Not being present with all I have been given and all I have earned, does.
Death does not scare me, but it is weird.
The celebrations of loved ones we have lost are reflective moments. After losing my Uncle I reflected on how amazing a listener he was. He didn't always have a ton to add, but he cared about every word you said and that it mattered to you. I remember playing with his family's husky, Tasha, in their narrow backyard. I remember talking 60s muscle cars in the driveway while shooting hoops with him and my cousins. And there is a deeper layer of reflection that happens in mourning, too. Those gut-check moments of, "I wonder what people will think about me when I die." In Hamilton, Eliza says at the end, "And when my time is up, have I done enough? Will they tell my story?"
Death is weird because there are so many selfless and selfish thoughts smashing around in your brain at once - and none are wrong. That cacophony of thoughts called me to write today. Because I want to celebrate you, Uncle Tim. And because, to close-enough-ly quote my father, "I'm writing my poems which I convince myself will mean something to someone."