On dying...

I see his widow.

“He passed on Thursday night” she says, eyes both hurting and resigned.

Unaccountably and uncontrollably my mind is off to the races.

“Passed?” it asks. How did he pass, did he pass to some better place we all hope exists whether we believe in it or not, or did he pass to oblivion and darkness?

Why do we use that word? Maybe he had to pass a test, and if so, who set the rules and who grades it? And what happens if you fail, are you forced to go on living until you pass, or do we all just pass by virtue of living, a kind of grand participation cup for playing the game of life?

Maybe he passed something on, a baton to a younger generation, a legacy of sorts? No, I knew him to well to buy that (even though I want to think nothing poorly of the dead)! At least I know he passed on a sadness for his passing, or we wouldn’t be here.

Maybe death was like passing a kidney stone, dread and anticipation, followed by pain and endurance, and finally – relief? Was his passing a release for him?

Heck, maybe he just decided to pass on life, kind of like I just choose to pass on shrimp and grits or sushi if they are offered to me!

Her eyes bring me crashing back to reality, reigning in my undisciplined brain and requesting a response so she can close the loop on this sad and inconsequential discussion.

“I am sorry for your loss”, I say. “Your family is in my prayers.”

I want to say, “This too will pass”, but somehow it just seems inappropriate at the time.