Death Begs Existential Questions

"Three words for a writer: Make Me Care," -Buffy Andrews

The trees are bare, and the flush of life on earth is at it's end.

And so was my Uncle Tim.

No one knew he was feeling this pain.  I saw him less than two weeks ago, and we never knew.  I never would have had the slightest inkling that he was depressed much less that he would kill himself with the weapon he used to gather his own food.

It would have been different if he died in a car accident.  No less tragic, but different.  It would have been different if he died of a heart attack.  No less tragic, but different.

Because instead of dying from the outside in, he died from the inside out.

Except the decay was not visible.

Until it was too late.

Now all that's left is the past.  All that's left is the memories and the words left unsaid.

~

I remember our last conversation about what praying mantis egg cases look like. He lead me around the back of the house, narrating the first time he found out that these pine-cone like structures were actually the nurseries for little baby praying mantises.

You never know which conversation will be your last.

I never knew him that well. I never thought he much liked me, being creative and sporadic and pensive.  I remember spending holidays where we barely spoke a word to each other - mostly because we never had much to discuss.

He was always one of my hardest relatives, a tough nut to crack - at least, in my book. I could never find much to connect with him, but it seemed I was getting over that hump, and, occasionally, we'd have good conversations.

But now those are lost words and lost causes.

And I regret it with my whole being.

~

The known haunts my past, but the uncertain terrifies my future. What will change? How will my family make it through each grueling day?

Funerals and pain mark what I forsee to be the future of my family. Black umbrellas and rainy eyes.

~

I can't - won't -  believe it until I see it.

But why.  I don't understand.  Why did he die?  Physically, what caused his heart to stop and for you to take the last breath from his lungs.  Why did he die?  Spiritually, what was your purpose for plucking his life back into your hands.

What is death?  Where do we really go?  Does any of this matter? Heaven, Hell, everything in between. Death begs existential questions, that, quite frankly, toy and spear through my feeble mind.

What really is any of this?

My mind floods with many thoughts that can never be translated on paper.  My heart bursts with many emotions that can never be expressed in words.

And what am I to do with them?

I just hope that Uncle Tim is up there with you, God.

USA Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

~The WordShaker