The pause at the end

I've never been to a funeral before for someone I've never met.

Until today.

I've known the family my whole life and thought it would be supportive to go and show respects and support for them. It was strange when partway through the powerpoint presentation of the obituary I found a tear trickling down my cheek. Crying for a life that I never met. Touched by someone who never said a word to me. It was tough.

Eighteen months. That's how long he had on this earth. Eighteen short months. If I knew I only had 18 months with someone what would I do differently? Would I hold them closer? Would I be more patient? Would I listen to them more and spend more time with them? Look them in the eye? Never let go?

It's been hard for me to try and grasp the concept of death in my older years. As a child it didn't seem that unnatural. Great-uncle soandso died of a heart attack. Grandma suchandsuch suffered from cancer. You get old, you die. What about when you're young? What about when 'old' comes closer and closer to the age you are? Then what? How can a life be so fragile that one minute they are with you, talking to you face-to-face, and then next you will never see them here again?

No one is untouched by this. Everyone who is born ultimately faces this end. What do we do, the ones left here? The parent who goes home to the empty wagon, the quiet swing? The son who's mothers last words to him were, "I'm sorry. I just can't take it."? The wife who's left in shambles, alone? Now what?

Risk more, trust freely, take chances, love eternally. We all end up in a cold box. It's what we do with this body before then that counts.

I'm going to hug my daughter now.