Death in the air

It seems like I'm being reminded of death a lot lately.

First there was Fillette.

Then I got the latest issue of my high school alumni magazine, and the In memoriam section listed six boys (well, men now) who had been there when I was: three I remembered well, and three were names that I felt I ought to remember but for whom I couldn't quite call up a face this many years later. But clearly they were all within a couple years of my age, one side or the other. And now they are all dead.

And then today was the funeral for the 20-year-old son of one of my coworkers. Yes, he was way too young. Apparently he died in an accident of some kind, though I never heard if it was, say, automotive or sporting. Either way, though, his parents buried him instead of the other way around. 

You can tell me that it's a First World Problem to assume that children will outlive their parents, that in places without peace and plenty, clean water and good health care, child mortality isn't all that uncommon. Sure. Fine. It was still sad.

The reassuring part, if you want to look at it this way, is that (unless you believe in a punitive afterlife) death shouldn't be a tragedy for the one who dies. His (or her) troubles are over. But of course it is a problem for those of us left behind. 

I really don't have anything intelligent to say about this, do I? It's just strange to be so reminded of it, so frequently, all within just a few weeks. Death is normally kept a lot less visible than that, even when the world is in a pandemic. 

Maybe it's just a reminder that the Real World is still out there, however much we pretend to have domesticated it. And the Real World is a lot stronger than we are.

Once I move to Sticksville, I had probably better make sure all my affairs are in order before the next winter rolls around (I mean the winter of 2021-2022), so that if the weather does kill me, it won't be a nuisance for the boys. A year or two ago, Son 1 explicitly told me "I'm not gonna Christopher-Tolkien your ass when you die," * but fortunately Marie has already volunteered to do that instead. If only I can get myself organized, huh?

* (Actually that's an interesting thing for him to say, because I honestly don't remember ever talking to the boys about having anything to write -- I'm thinking of the kind of thing I publish on the Patio, or even some of this maundering if only it were organized and tightened up. Of course, children often know their parents better than the parents know themselves.)

Maybe I should have dinner and go to bed.