Death sucks

As a lover of aesthetics, initially I found my Papa’s passing beautiful. My aunt sang him, “You Are My Sunshine” and told him it was ok to go. So he took her advice and passed on. I pictured them holding hands, a father and daughter cradling one last loving moment. After briefly admiring the story and feeling grateful, I cried and anxiously picked at my fingernails until they bled. I washed all my sheets, vacuumed, Clorox wiped, and Windex sprayed every surface, trying to shake the grimy feeling of mourning. Death is death. It can hold captivating memories and heartfelt condolences, but it is what it is—death. Awful, messy, heartbreaking death. In a few days, distant relatives I’ve never met will dab their glistening cheeks and share their favorite stories, sympathetically reaching out to my immediate family. Everything will smell like flowers. We will have the best hors d' oeuvres. “He’s peaceful, now,” we’ll murmur appropriately. “He’s with his wife. Not suffering.” It will suck. Death sucks. We use traditions and aesthetics as a coping mechanism to deal with heartbreak, giving the heartbroken a free pass to express their emotions publicly. Great. A slight glitch in the patriarchy. I’d rather have my Papa alive. I’m sure his funeral will be beautiful. Significant. Enter some other deep, flowery word that means nothing and everything. But it will also suck and that’s ok. I’m angry and nauseas and panicky and really fucking sad. Pardon my language. But I’m being honest with myself. I know beneath the touching aesthetics of mourning there is a gritty ache that demands to be felt. It tastes like burning asphalt. I will heal, go through the stages of mourning, and this will all fade into a faintly bittersweet memory—I’ve had a psychology class, I know what happens next. So don’t tell me it’ll get better. Please. Don’t tell me to cherish his memory or think of him every time I see puppies frolicking in the sunset or some bullshit. I’m not there yet. I will be, I get it, but not yet. Tell me it sucks. Allow me to hurt and be angry and wallow in self-pity. Please. I love my Papa, I love everything about him. He was incredible. He was gentle and capable and was so unrelentingly proud of me. But death sucks. And I’m not ok. And that’s ok. 

Afraid? Angry? So fight.

Dear friends,

you are hurting

angry

ravenous for justice

eager to place blame

defensive

scared

scared

scared

Me too.

Whatever you believe is the answer—

fight for it.

Listen.

Act.

Call people.

Rally.

Take time to breathe in between

but gear the hell up

and push for change.

This is ours

all of it—

the responsibility,

the heartbreak,

the anxiety behind not knowing.

Fight then breathe then fight again.

There is no right way, no one

answer.

But justice is graspable

if we are not too lazy,

apathetic,

or judgmental

to reach out talons

hungry for peace.