Death and Grief--one doesn't mean you have to do the other...

   No matter how hard most people try to understand it, losing someone at three or even one hundred and three leaves them clueless. Speechless. Life is fragile. Precious. Non-repeatable. We have all heard these same reasons for holding on to what we have. It's sweet sentiment, and needed, but it also causes us to lose sight of what we must do when that life is gone. It's difficult, but one shouldn't ask what ifs, or regret what they did or did not say or do. That would be an injustice to the life that was lived. A person's greatest gift, their life's meaning, is how they positively affected others that are still around. But those words of wisdom aren't learned easily.
They never are. My lessons started at any early age. Sadly, back then I had it all wrong, but I was so young I can't easily be blamed. I was a mere toddler, who eyed my Great Uncle Loren sitting in a chair out of the corner of my eye. We were in an unknown building with scattered empty chairs. My curiosity got the best of me as I sat and stared at him while he wept. I tried to bluntly talk to him like nothing was wrong, but his glazed eyes towards the coffin in front of him was beyond my attention-getting maneuvers. In that wooden box was a life I knew nothing about, but he knew, and it showed. To describe her would be easy, but back then that was all I could do. She had skin like a soft pearl, with ringlets in her ageless blonde hair. I never knew my Great Aunt Leah, and therefore all I could do was see the sadness in the room. That's where I faltered, but as I grew...things changed. You see, later on in life, I inherited photo albums from my Grandma S. that told me the REAL story. A young, articulate little girl from a well-to-do family lived life to the fullest. She traveled, collected, and spoke of beautiful places and things. I even found dried, pressed flowers meticulously placed in an album from a trip she took as a little girl with her family back in the 1920's. From then on she met my Great Uncle and they fell in love. Later they adopted a little boy. This was not the lifeless shell in the rectangular box before me as a young child. In fact, this was a woman who truly lived and, in some way, gave those around her memories for a lifetime. Even me, someone who doesn't even remember her being alive. Just by living, she inadvertently left me with a legacy of memories that I will always cherish. The stories don't stop there, either. From my wonderful Grandpa S., with his quiet but wise demeanor and helpful spirit, to my matriarchal Grandma S. with her infectious smile, constant words of wisdom, and never ending amount of love, to my sometimes grouchy but sometimes unexpectedly goofy Great Grandma P., to my Step-Grandpa Bill and his stern but extremely generous persona, to my beloved Grandpa T. and his jovial, friendly personality, who was an expert-level conversationalist and jingle-singing goof-ball, these are ALL people I don't remember during their final moments. Not because I can't, but because I choose not to. My greatest gift to them, and their greatest gift to me, are the memories that we all shared together. Treasure those gifts and never settle for what ifs. The pain will always be extreme in the beginning, but as with all things...once it fades a person's entire life finally ends up where it's meant to go. In the memories of the lives they touched when others were graced by their awesome presence. We must honor their lives by talking about how they lived. That's the only way they never truly die.