Why are we so obsessed with the end, with being there when our loved one passes? I say “we,” but I am asking “Why am I reliving the end?” Why am I upset that I was not on the scene when Burt died?
I say “we” because I think it’s a universal distress. I wasn’t there at the moment he passed. I really do believe that “we all die alone.” I believe it so tightly that I recall writing a poem about it but can’t find it anywhere. Clearly, this is a subliminal thought I carry.
There is a secondary belief that our beloved waits til we are out of the room. Dying is a private act and Burt died on his own terms. I came back just minutes after he had gone. Ten minutes? Twenty?, more?, I ask myself.
His passing was both peaceful and tumultuous.
I remember the last four days when he sought to find an exit, something, when he reached silently with his arms and his elegant fingers outstretched. I remember it as Burt seeking an exit, pethaps that is a memory of hindsight. I think it is accurate.
We all die alone
It is our story, our drama
With which we close
The scene. It will
Always be profound,
Our death, a solo bow
To our life and to our loves
These are my thoughts on the six months anniversary of his death.
this is our life 