For Loren

It wasn’t very long ago that someone close to me lost a child. The girl was 29, and there’s just no other way to say it: She died far too young. Like everyone involved, I was shocked to hear the news. I literally did not know what to say. She was a good person, and it seems that people like that are maddeningly few and far between. I will miss her. I write this not for her, but for her mother. I wish I didn’t have to write it. I really do.


What is there that anyone can say to a parent who’s lost a child? Somebody told me not long ago that, as a person who has no children, I don’t really know what love is. I could argue that point, but I mention it because I don’t think I’ve ever felt so empathetic for my friend, one of the nicest people I have ever met. I cannot imagine what that must be like, and I can’t put a value on how badly I wished I had some words that would help to ease the utter despair that she must have felt. The psychiatrists say that it is a uniquely human quality to want to help when we see another person in trouble, that it is innate in us to assist and comfort fellow persons, even strangers, but when it is someone close that’s hurting, it seems impossible to console them no matter how good our intentions. And those of us with some sense of decorum stand mute for fear of worsening an already awful situation, wanting to wail with and for them, knowing that there is nothing we can do to make things better. Yet, we’re powerless to console what must surely be inconsolable. And that’s really what death reminds us of, isn’t it? That we are not in control. That we are mortal.

When I heard the news about Rachael, I wanted to write something, but I couldn’t think of how to begin, let alone a theme that would tie all thoughts together in a way that would make sense. Her death was such a shock that nothing I could think of would be enough. Nothing was appropriate. And in the most serendipitous of ways, I saw something that completely captured everything I wanted to say. It was a bird. I saw it at the Honolulu Zoo, and I thought it was injured. It had a huge red splotch on its chest. I thought it had been shot. Then I noticed another, and another, and all bore the same mark. They strutted and preened and flew about (in their cage) looking fatally wounded, yet vibrant. It was as if they continued to live after having their hearts torn out. I’m not ashamed to say that I got a little mushy. Like a bolt, I thought of my friend’s loss, and experienced the tiniest fraction of her pain, and that was more than enough.

The bird in the picture carries on regardless of its horrifying appearance. As individuals, they had varying degrees of color and size for their marks, as if some were more immediately wounded than others. I don’t know if the marks change on the birds, but I hope that the stain on my friend’s chest fades with time. It won’t disappear, of course, but I hope that like the birds, she is able to go about the business of her life in spite of her having literally lost a piece of herself.

For my Friend: When my father’s father died, I watched him during the funeral, and he was stoicism incarnate. I knew he was hurting, but he was a rock. I’m sure he was stained though. I remember later in the evening, hours after the funeral, as we passed each other in his father’s house bursting into tears and hugging him, telling him that I didn’t think I could ever be as composed as he was when it came time for me to bury him. It was an awful feeling, but I can see how it could be worse. A person expects to bury their parents, not their children. Words are an utter failure for describing that experience. I think what I want to say is that grief is a very personal thing. For a parent, it must be a private hell built for one. I hope your time there is short. I know that you have seen the darkest of days, and I hope that it will help you to appreciate the bright ones that will surely come. No one deserves them more than you.

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