“I don’t like endings,” he said. I could hear the quiet of their house in the background. He must have been at his desk. There was the tapping of a pencil against bare wood.
This was my cousin, and this statement was made in reference to an elderly uncle of ours who had just died.
But what I knew he was really talking about was the death of his own son, age 24, in a car accident two years prior. After Larry was killed, my cousin, his father, went out and bought an oil lamp to keep in the middle of their dining room table. He still lights it every night.
Time does not heal with the loss of a child, this I have witnessed through those first two years of a father’s grief. But it does perhaps allow for grief to become more comfortable. Threadbare at the elbows, like a sweater worn every day – it does allow for one to more easily to talk about that. Endings.