I was going through my archives and I realized that, without necessarily meaning to when I started this blog, a recurring topic seems to have emerged.
I write about dead people.
I don’t want to be the person who can’t move on from losing his mother, father and one sister. But, at the same time, I don’t know how I can separate the loss from the person that I am.
Every experience is somehow diminished by the knowledge that it can no longer be shared with them. Christmas and special occasions are specially difficult.
Reliving the memories is often a source of comfort and inspiration. Sometimes the memories cause pain so sharp it's almost physical. But, as in life, you can't take one without the rest.
I know that I can share new experiences with the people who are still present it in my life. And I do. I have a close circle of family and friends who are my life-savers.
I know that I should go ahead and create new memories. And I do try. That's what they would have wanted. More importantly - that's what I want for myself. There is so much left to do and try and taste and see.
But the fact remains – they’re gone. And I miss them. And I don’t want to relegate their presence in my life to the past.
I write about them because this is a way to keep their memories alive. I write about them because I want people to know that they lived, that their existence mattered.
I write about them because their influence in still very much apparent in how I now live my life.
I write about them because I know I write well. And I want to use that gift to honor them.
That's the way it is.