Death. It’s all around us waiting and anticipating patiently for the capture of yet another tormented soul. Death. It’s just a step away, a wrong turn, a leap off into the unknown, an accidental overdose, a purposeful one, or maybe even a heady slumber. Death. It can be beautiful, similar to that of a dying rose, almost mesmerizing. Death. It can also be hideous, taking a life that wasn’t yet fulfilled. Like those full of passionate dreams ready to burst at the surface, but being suffocated into silence because of a selfish day wanting that of another date, accompanied by empty bottles and fake smiles. I was 8. I remember the day being wet. Everything covered in a coat of dampness. Something about that day wasn’t right from the beginning. The atmosphere, it was heavy, almost massive. Not long into the morning is when ringing reverberated off our concrete walls. My grandmother had died. Death. It had taken her soul all too soon, the previous day she was breathing, laughing, alive. The very next day her sleep had taken her in its wake. Tears. They glistened on my parents eyes. Red rings circled their very existence. I was confused. Why is my Father crying? Why is my Mother consoling him? Had something gone wrong? Could I fix it? Not too long into this catatonic catastrophe, I feel my mother’s hand guiding me with good intentions. They say the eyes are a window into a person’s soul. That day, that saying forever clung to my suspicions. As soon as my mother closed the door, I could feel the sorrow embracing her very existence. Death. It was near. It was gone. It had taken my Grandmother from my family and me. Her destiny was to be that of a granule in a pretty vase, placed in our mahogany display.
After that day, I began to fixate on her death. I knew she was dead. She was dead somewhere being burned into little pieces. She was dead somewhere without consciousness. She was dead somewhere disappointed in her last, exasperated breath. She was dead somewhere without thought, without me. Her existence had been obliterated, without probable cause. Why had her stay her on earth been so short? And who was to say that mine couldn’t be cut short either? Was she only the beginning? Who else that I loved was going to die? Inevitable, yes. But the time in which they are here with me, I wanted it to be more than a moment. I wanted a small infinity. From there on out, I became besotted with the idea of death. How its kiss could grace upon someone so suddenly, so abruptly. Death and life seem like that of best friends having an ongoing dispute. They seem like a border line, a cross walk, that of a new dimension. Death. It becomes a constant and stagnant reminder of just how precious life can be. In a moment. Anything can be declared or created. Maybe even destroyed. Life. It’s a constant reminder to achieve your dreams, your aspirations, find love, and along the way have that sense of fulfillment. After her sudden death, my fixation on death became extremely apparent to everyone and everything around me. I was looking at everything from a new perspective. Deaths perspective. My Teachers called it depression. My parents called it dwelling. I called it an awakening. I began to see things for what they truly were. An adoption of an exuberant puppy, was to fulfill its short life with happiness before its demise. Older folks attending new gyms around the growing suburban area, trying to become as healthy as they can to avoid death a little bit longer. Smokers. Trying to rid their lungs of the black tar coating them to avoid meeting death. Corner stores. Older employees trying to scavenge fragments of money to go toward their wills for their becoming families. Death. It was everywhere and in everything.
The realization that we were born to die, created only to be destroyed, oblivion, it was all too much for me. Still is. Why is it that we creatures aren’t immortal? Why is it that a stars last stage is a burning supernova? Why can’t life be infinite? Why must all things come to an end? Death. It’s the answer to everything. It’s gloomy presence hovering dominantly over the human race. It’s not specific. It takes every gender, every size, every skin color, every smile, everyone. I suppose death is kind in that way, it’s accepting of everyone.
My grandmother always seems to pass my mind. How her death killed something in her, but yet awakened something in me. She will be forever adored and remembered for the beautiful things. That’s the thing about death, it glorifies. Everyone who dies is suddenly missed and/or remembered for the wonderful things they’ve done. Death. It really isn’t all that depressing as people make it out to be. Every move you make, every step you take, every decision made, and there is a silent clock ticking backwards running out of time. Life is like a game of chess. One unintentional move, checkmate. One graciously swift pawn sideways and you’re in the clear for a while longer. That’s the funny thing about death. Death, it can be prevented and sometimes even stopped. But life, you can’t stop life without death. Life can’t be prevented, it’s forcing you to live it, demanding to be felt accordingly. That’s the thing about death, death is easy. Life is hard.
My infatuation with death never ceases to amaze me. The light I’m able to obtain from the darkest of corridors. The beauty I’m able to visualize from the most horrific of instances. I believe my grandmothers passing has taught me that everything happens for a reason, whether we like it or not. Everything that’s beautiful, full of life, must come to an eventual end. By observing life through this sort of magnification, I am able to see the bigger picture. The details. That there is death in beauty, and beauty in death. Death teaches us intangible lessons unlike any other force on earth. Instead of pushing away this inevitable fate, we should embrace it for what it truly has to offer. Death. It gives life meaning.
