That is what death is.

An event, a thing, it happens.

That is what death is.

A cup of tea is a cup of tea. The wind is wind. Dress these things up in fancy names and they are still the same thing. A breeze is still wind. A creamed chai is still tea.

That is what death is.

People think death is a time for fancy words. Long eulogies where you remember before you forget. The day is not about you and it is not about the dead. A day is a day, no matter how you dress it up.

An event, a thing, it happens.

That is what death is.

My uncle, the one everyone loves to hate; he made death a show to turn attention onto him. Like he was special. He spoke such flowery words that came from nothing and went to nothing. His false sincerity poured out of his fake despondence. He treated death like a show. Trying to dress it up into something it was not. He tried so hard to make himself something he was not.

Like he was special.

He dressed himself up in a suit too slick for him to keep on. He wore it to keep from being naked before us. To keep from being himself; the one we loved to hate. But the fabric still slid off and it was easy to see what was beneath. He tried to cover himself up with words from a play where his role was that of someone with a deep soul.

There was no soul there.

Just a man dressed up and playing pretend. An actor in a role. No words came from him that made him special. No words came that made the day anything more than it was. He had them written down and he read as if reciting. It was not a eulogy, it was a satire.

It was just a day where we wore black and remembered the things before we forgot them.

An event, a thing, it happened.

That is what death is.

People think that death is the opposite of life, but it’s not. Death is just death. It has no opposite, no synonym. Death is death and life is life. They are not opposite and they are not equal. No amount of dressing them up will make them so.

I am not like my uncle who turns the show to him. I am not the one to dress up in a suit that is so slick it falls off and leaves me naked. I am not special and I do not say special things. I try not to be a satire of myself, of the good daughter, the prodigal daughter, the first daughter. I am who I am. I am not the opposite of myself dressed up into what I think I should be.

Strip me away and leave me naked.

When the time comes I will join my uncle and I will not speak.

That is what death is.

Posted by Utopia at November 21, 2006 08:15 AM

Comments

Posted by: jeckles at November 21, 2006 11:23 AM

Posted by: veda at November 21, 2006 12:38 PM

Post a comment