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This morning I googled the term death (06.18.2022) and received 5,820,000,000 results. Clearly over vast periods of time the word, the concept has been defined, philosophized by scholars, debated by religious intellectuals, written about by authors, great and those of questionable talents, a topic beyond any other, other than perhaps love.
I heard the word growing up. I played a cowboy and kill my share of villains. I played war and destroyed the enemy, repeatedly. My grandfather on my dad’s side of the family died and I drifted through the experience. (see keithemaynard.com, Maynard Keith and Kin, Saying Goodbye to Winfield Scott Maynard). Still, I lacked a deeper, personal understand of what is meant. A genuine understanding. Sitting alone, in my bedroom, on the edge of the bed, having just hung up the phone after speaking with my sister.
January 29, 1987.
Death had a new meaning.
Separation.
I had recently returned from Washington, DC visiting, my mother’s final day approaching. Shared last words, knowing. For me death now meant, I felt it, lost, afloat in universe of one.
Absolute Separation.
God had drawn a line in the sand, she stepped over the line, never looking back. She left behind, stories, notes, photographs, fading memories, and unanswered questions. We all have a start date, and all will have an end date, that’s it.
No return.
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