Reaching the age of 47 has turned the concept of mortality from a vague idea into a vivid, almost tactile presence. I find myself waking in the night, the weight of finality sinking in for a heartbeat before a sudden, frantic need to reach for something harmless—whether it’s a discussion about fruit salad, an obsessive search for the perfect necklace style, or a mental debate over using yogurt instead of applesauce when eggs run low. These tiny diversions act as a buffer against the stark awareness that death does happen to everyone.
My father, the person who taught me to laugh at the absurd, often reminds me that death “happens to the best of us.” Those words echo whenever the thought of my own impermanence bubbles up, nudging me toward a mix of acceptance and distraction.
Confronting mortality in everyday moments
Even on a platform where we discuss everything under the sun, the subject of death remains strangely untouchable. It has been two years since I last broached it openly here, and five years before that it was barely a whisper in conversation. Yet the internal dialogue never really stops. I notice a pattern: every time the idea of my own end feels too close, I reach for a mundane task—sorting recipes, polishing jewelry, or scrolling through a list of hobbies. One reader once joked that their hobby was “existential dread,” and what felt like a punchline then now feels like a mirror.
These rituals are not meant to erase the truth; they merely give the mind a temporary foothold while I sit with the unsettling certainty that, as my dad says, death will arrive for anyone who is “the best of us.”
Poetry as a bridge to grief
When my friend passed away this summer his absence was immediate, yet his presence lingered in a way that felt almost physical. I could picture him in his beanie, urging us toward the diner, his voice threading through the room even though he was no longer there. That paradox—being gone but still vividly alive in memory—reminded me of Andrea Gibson’s love letter, which declares that dying is not a departure but a transformation: “Dying is the opposite of leaving. When I left my body, I did not go away… I am more here than I ever was before.” The poem suggests that the people we love become part of the living world through the hearts that keep them.
Another verse that resonates is Henry van Dyke’s “Gone From My Sight.” In it, a ship sets sail, shrinking to a speck only to be celebrated again as it reappears on the horizon. The poem’s line, “There, she is gone,” becomes a meditation on perception rather than disappearance. The ship is still as sturdy as when it left; its scale changes only in the observer’s eye. This metaphor mirrors how grief reshapes our view of those we have lost.
Freddie, a close confidant, once shared a stanza from Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself that frames mortality as a return to the earth: “I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love… You will hardly know who I am… but I shall be good health to you nevertheless.” Whitman’s words suggest that death may be a quiet contribution to the lives we continue to lead, a subtle, nurturing presence beneath our feet.
What comes after? Personal beliefs and lingering questions
None of these poems claim to answer the ultimate mystery of what follows death, but they each offer a way to *reframe* the unknown. Is the answer found in lyrical expression, in the love we nurture for children and friends, or simply in the next practical decision—like whether yogurt can truly replace eggs? For me, the act of asking the question is already a step toward peace.
When the night grows quiet and the panic threatens to surface, I ask myself: do I keep busy, or do I sit with the unease? Some evenings I find solace in the rhythmic act of kneading dough, letting the tactile sensation ground me. Other nights I let a poem sit on my tongue, feeling each line as a gentle hand on a grieving heart.
Ultimately, the conversation about death remains open-ended. I invite readers to share their own coping mechanisms—whether they lean on humor, art, or the steady routine of daily chores. The goal is not to solve the mystery, but to acknowledge it, to live with it, and to let the pieces of our lives—poetry, memories, even the debate over yogurt vs. applesauce—form a tapestry that makes the inevitability a little more bearable.
