Debbie Does Drivel

That's the thing about death.
You don't come back from it.
It's always got me: you can't return from death.
(Such a hard concept to grasp, like how did God get here? Nothing comes from nothing. But how did something come about from nothing?)
Oh well. It's simple really. Everyone feels that disbelief about death. The denial that the person you love really won't come back.

I felt it when my mom died. Afterward, I crawled next to her to feel anything that might be left of her self. But she really was gone. The people left behind feel that irrevocably and it's hard to describe to those who haven't been through it: but all vestige of the person who passed away went with them. The body seems like just the shell it is.

I felt it again this past weekend when we went to the wake and funeral of Kev's grandpa. The face, the hands, the arms, the clothes of the person are there, right there for you to see. But you don't feel it. You can't even -- for awhile -- picture the shy smile or the raspy laugh or the slow slow way this person used to open Christmas presents -- with a little pocket knife he always kept with him. Then, the teeny reminders and pictures come back to you, and you just can't believe that there's a finite amount of memories left of this person, and that is all.

Someone I respect once said that we are the waves on a vast ocean. The ocean is the absolute and the wave is a brief peak of individuality which rises, then returns to its source.
A small bit of comfort, I suppose.