Death is such an odd thing. One minute you’re rolling along, laughing, singing, or eating ice cream, and the next minute, poof. The person you loved who seemed so real is gone in the flesh.
It reminds me of the childhood game hide and seek, when it was my turn to seek. I’d close my eyes and count as I pictured everyone scattering. Then the search in the dark began. Sometimes I’d find a friend, and other times they’d disappear. I knew their mother had called them home, but there in the dark, it felt like death.
My voice student, Michael, was 21, warm, wonderful, and severely autistic. Earlier this month, I went to an info session with his support team, to help plan a possible job for him. On Tuesday, I listened to him practice for his next recital. His version of I Left My Heart in San Francisco resonated with pure tenor tones.
Last night, his mom called, sobbing that Michael was hospitalized and probably wouldn’t make it. I told her to go hold him close and hope for a miracle. Today, she said he died.
Six years ago, the last words my mom said to me were, I want to go home. I tried to explain that she had too many broken bones from the accident, but she shook her head and pointed to the sky. Heaven was her next home.
My thoughts swirl inside of me. I’m all alone with them.
I have no words of wisdom for you, nothing to impart regarding death that hasn’t been written before. I just know it’s frustrating. And complete.