My Ama used to tell me the story of her father’s death on the nights of the new moon. I always enjoyed it, it’s familiarity obscuring the more obviously morbid parts.
It seemed so beautiful, back then, at least, as I sat in her lap, and she told me that not even Death was a match for the strangeness so inherent to our bloodline.
Now though, I look back and sigh at the naivety, and weep at the injustice.
She was only twelve, after all.
They were… somewhere, for his job. Ama once mentioned Texas, which would make the time-frame make sense at least, but every time I try to remember the scene she described I can only see them, the sun, and the sidewalk.
They were walking somewhere, when he paused and sighed.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to leave early, I would like to die in my own bed.”
My Ama just scowled at him, in that condescending way all twelve year old’s possess.
“You’re full of shit Papa.”
And he laughed, and they rushed home anyway.
They took a plane. I sometimes wonder if it’s one he had helped design.
I sometimes wonder if they talked on the way back.
But I do not have to wonder just how correct he was, because he died hours later.
I will not burden you with the details that followed, for the care of the dead is much more of a family affair, but I can assure you the funeral was, if not beautiful, rather dramatic.
I can also inform you of the fact my Grandfather’s headstone assures any passers-by that he never learned to flush the toilet.
But this is not quite what I find myself so thankful for while I stand six feet above his corpse, wondering if he when he died he was greeted by the pearly gates or was guided by the moon to the red sea. Or maybe the man was met with flames and sulfur, as soldiers often fear.
I find myself thankful for the assurance that to know Death before it comes makes it calm instead of frantic. Memento Mori becomes easier that way, as I remember that those before me have faced their ends without fear.
Otherwise the knowledge would’ve driven me insane by now, to know I die on a boat in my thirties, wearing my Ama’s old grey coat.
Drowning is peaceful enough.
It does make me wonder though, if my Ama knows when she will die, and is afraid to tell me.
It makes me wonder if my Amona knew as she married my Great-grandfather that it would be cut short.
Love is fleeting, as they say.