For Larry

Nicholas Mosvick
Sep 7, 2018 · 2 min read

For some, processing death is something that should be shared, discussed, and prepared for in order to make it a more positive event. I would argue that our rituals of death reflect the significance of the event and help to reflect how each individual loss is important, rather than treating it as regular (as opposed to normal). This, I think, is a difference from much of human history — as of now, we can trace burial back to at least the 5th century BC. We can prepare in a multitude of ways and certainly individuals can write wills and imagine life beyond them. But no matter how much we know it is coming, no matter the age or condition, it still strikes with a bolt of finality.

Do I have anything new to say about mortality? No, but I am unsure that many do. It is our human paralysis but, as too many have explained, the source of our drive to make our lives matter. And that’s the difficulty too — to grieve is also to determine what truly mattered and what to hold onto. What does it say if I hold onto my Grandpa’s gruff, but lively and excitable voice or for his insatiable love of the outdoors? That I knew more of his stories than his inner, deeper thoughts? Does that reflect him being more a man of action and perpetual movement or a failure on my part to engage him enough to reach a deeper level? The truth often lies in the middle, but I would be remiss to deny my own inability to reach out more. Life can often rest on luck and elements entirely out of control, yet, we maintain a meaningful ability to make choices in our actions, thoughts, and words.

And how does one grieve when they are 1,000 miles away? Inevitably, through others. The lived experiences of family there because your reality and only lens into what happened — but not necessarily how it felt. Not truly knowing how it felt hinders the ability to truly process what occurs. The sense is, until you are back home, until you can hug and talk face-to-face with your family, you have yet to truly appreciate what has happened. I do not regret my choices in life that have kept me from being close to home, but in the moment, I certainly wish otherwise. That is not regret — that is sadness.