A beloved passes away, and the world stops. That moment of excruciating agony when a soul realizes that it has been irrevocably ripped apart, never to be whole again in this world, is, most of us believe, the most painful moment of one’s existence. That is the moment when the bereaved would trade anything for the departed’s life — including his or her own. That is the moment when the prospect of one’s own demise feels like a welcome idea. That is the moment when the world and its material pleasures fade into insignificance. That is the moment when our own dreams, our pursuits, our aspirations, our life’s work, our accomplishments, our cares, our endeavors, our very lives seem futile and meaningless.
That moment passes. We survive.
To refer to a loved one in the past-tense for the first time feels awful. The heart misses a couple of beats and…
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