Loss

by Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi

Maybe that’s all there is to it: language, how we employ it to know someone, or love them more deeply.

Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality.

Stories fix us. Stories make us see. Stories remind us how we have failed at love, why we should try harder. Stories teach us when to leave. Stories remind us that we are not alone in our anguish – everyone is a little bit broken, and perhaps better for it.

The sky falls. But there are other skies behind it. You just can’t see it at the time.

At the end, we receive ashes. They are not condensations of being but a reminder that even fire cannot destroy what has been loved. ––

Grief is not a record of what has been lost but of who has been loved. In the end, we weep not only for the death of someone but for the startling question that faces us: what shall we do with the love we have for the deceased? Where will we put it?