The deaths of the ones we love are all the same and all different.
The loss is always sharp; the comfort of recollected memories
always sweet and comforting.
But the texture of each loss is different. The death of a
grandparent undermines our sense of generational continuity.
The death of a parent, our security that we are rocked in the
cradle of life. The death of a child that life’s cradle is essentially
good.
The death of a sibling too is unique. It ignites our own vivid
sense of mortality. This brother or sister knows the music that
shaped us, the humor that amused us, the role models that
transfixed us in ways that parents can only suspect.
And they embody the wonderfully mundane rhythms of life.
Innumerable conversations around the family dinner tables.
Many hours in the family car trips. Conspiracies galore with
those brothers and sisters. Sometimes one against another. Just
as often all for one in service of undermining parental authority
or family routine. In any event, a rich lore of family secrets.
And when they are gone is it surprising if it feels as if a piece of
our own soul has been lost?
