It has been 3 years. 1095 days. 26,280 hours.
And during every single minute of these 1095 days, there was that emptiness. That space. That longing. That death.
The latter, ironically enough, is not something that ever dies. You never get over it, no matter how many minutes accumulate between that last breath and the current moment.
It never fades away. Even as you go through seriously tough times. Even as you concentrate really hard on finishing that deadline. Even as you raise a glass of intoxicant in delirious stupor. Death always has a place in your soul.
First you slowly learn to ignore it. Then you start to keep it in tow; a painful reminder rather than an all-controlling emotion. Finally, you start drawing strength from it. If I could go through that, you realize, I could go through anything.
I’m not saying it becomes easier. After all, death is so final. Death is no more. The finality of it brings up lots of whys. Why so young? Why not in 30 years, when people usually die? Why so quickly? Why so suddenly? Why him? Why?
But why is a pointless question. Especially when you’re not asking anyone.
And thus the minutes continue to pass. The hours keep ending. The days keep starting. The years change – of course they do, whether he’s here or not.
Whether he’s here or not. We’re still here. We are still a part of him. He made us. He nourished us. He taught us. He loved us. No. He’s now a part of us, not the other way round.
Its been three years. And we live. We laugh. We smile. We love. He would have really enjoyed this day, we say. He would be so proud of you. He really would have liked that chocolate, because it doesn’t have any sugar and he was diabetic.
The finality of a death that never dies is bitter.
The finality of a death that never dies is also sweet, though.
Death never dies. It remains. He remains. He will never leave. For as long as we live, he will exist in our actions, in our thoughts, in our hearts, in our minds.
And I suppose, after 3 years – 1095 days, 26,280 hours – that’s what you come to understand. Death doesn’t kill.
We miss you, baba.