Saying goodbye to those who die is a simple task. In death, our hand is forced. The other did not choose not to be in our lives anymore. It is a part of life itself. Death carries a finality we can not change and only accept. Indeed, by faith we find death not even very frightful for a surety of more life thereafter.
Much harder is saying goodbye to those who live. Parting bears a choice: the choice to leave a person’s life. Whether by silence or explicit statement, when someone who lives leaves our life they have decided that we aren’t worth being part of their life. And those who have been left carry the weight of that decision.
Knowing that one you love lives, and yet will not be in your life, can there be a greater pain? Being left, forgotten or removed, by those we love leaves a tinny taste in our souls, blood from a wounded spirit. By our beloveds, we have been scorned.
Death can not stop love in any of its forms. Love can only be ended by a decision. What a terrible, painful verdict that ends love! Even the decree of execution should be found an angel’s song in comparison. For out of that decree, we find the comfort of death, a cessation of suffering.
Within the quietus of love, our heart still beats love, while another does not. Thereafter, the rhythmic and iambic pulse of a heartbeat becomes the crash of a discordant cymbal. It knows not reason and can not reason why it has been left.
Would that life were so easy as death. But then, there is always hope. Often false hope, the heart still clings to fragments of truth found therein. “Wait and hope,” said a wise man. “For how long?” we must ask our own hearts.