I never know how to write about death, especially when it’s the death of someone so young and had a lot of life left to live. A week ago, someone I knew in college died unexpectedly at the age of 34. She left three young children and her loving husband and to me that is the worst tragedy. She’ll never see them grow up and become the people they were meant to be. They’ll never have their mother to comfort them when they’re sick or feeling down or guide them through the difficult times. Her husband will be alone without her, to raise their children without his loving partner. I don’t have a significant other, so I can’t imagine the pain he must be going through. But I did lose a parent a couple years ago, so I know how the children are feeling and it sucks.
Death is never easy at any age. You would think after thousands of years, we’d come up with a way to comfort those left behind and help them get through the aftermath, but we haven’t. Some countries and cultures have a better way about dealing with death, but I don’t think we Americans have quite figured it out yet. After all, we have magazines, actors, and models that idolize looking young. Our fashion and medication makes us look younger, rather than to appreciate the process of aging.
I wish I had a more cohesive thought today, but I don’t. Sometimes writing is just plain hard.