Death is Not an End

(AP Photo/Rodrigo Abd)

It seems like in the past year, every time I open my eyes, another person I love so dearly dies, sometimes quite young. It’s rough stuff, heavy stuff. Life doesn’t stop for it either; things go back to normal, but we don’t completely. Anyone who’s lost someone or will lose someone, especially suddenly, feels how it changes you, the tragedy and sadness that overtakes you.

Grief can make you feel all sorts of awful things you don’t want to feel: anger, despair or fearfulness. It’s like a holy trinity of bad feelings, but there is a light of hope at the end of that tunnel of lostness.

I remember when I was five years old, I realized that my great-grandpa, my “Dedushka” as we called him, wasn’t out running errands but was gone. So, in the playground of my kindergarten, I made a paper airplane on which I wrote two poorly spelled questions, “Dear Dedushka - how are you?” and underneath that, “What’s heaven like?” I threw it up so high it landed somewhere over the fence and in the trees. And I waited. But I never got a response.

I grew up very deeply connected to the idea that one day we would be with the loved ones we lost. Just because someone’s gone, they’re not really gone. Well, I hope so, but I don’t really know if it’s true or not. You can hope, but you can’t know for certain. But I do know this, the dead don’t ever leave our hearts.

Even so, even as we lose people, we still carry them with us. Bits and pieces of those things we loved, speaking to them in times of need as though they were still here. 

It’s so strange, isn’t it? We think death means an end, a finality. And there is that. But sometimes, it’s the beginning of something new. 

When I was growing up, we had a cherry tree, and if you ever take a walk through the orchards of California, you’ll see those very same lovely trees. In the winter, all their branches become bare and empty. But if you wait long enough, first comes one blossom, then two, then a whole sea of the most incredible shades of pink you’ve ever seen. It’s an amazing sight to behold because it’s one of those beautiful things you just can’t help but be smitten by. 

The leaves wither away but leave us with a sweeter fruit than we might have ever imagined. Whenever I eat cherries, I try to remember all the leaves that had to fall for it to reach my hands.

There’s something bittersweet in “loss,” that euphemism for the thing we fear so much that we can’t even name it. And what’s to fear in death but being parted from the ones we love? The bitter part is the parting, but the sweetest part is what we keep with us until we wither back into the ground too.

In this last week of winter quarter before finals, I’ve been taking some walks around campus. Winter is almost over, and I’ve seen the first few blossoms of spring.

Life is so short, don’t waste a second of it. Watch closely for the cherry blossoms; they arrive when we least expect it.