Van Gogh...Meet Death

Some of us like to personify Death as a “Grim Reaper,” and would best describe him as a dark, mellow, loner, draped in an all black cloak making any Goths attire seem like the formal dress code for a hippy convention in comparison. I like to think of Death as an artist. He can simultaneously summon any emotion, evoking deep pain, sympathy, relief, honor, pride, or even happiness (for some sickos) with each of his pieces. He has many different forms of art, and as predictable he is, he always seems to shock us, his style never growing old. And he may be the most persistent artist ever; Death takes no days off in his craft.

Some people might be grieving a recent or even a long time death (I’m in the same place) and might have found my metaphor a bit insensitive however as I progress, my analysis will broaden providing better understanding. A year ago to this day, I was going crazy trying to grasp an understanding of Death.

At times of death some people offer words of wisdom something along the likes of “she’s in a better place…” and to those I’d respond “thanks…but I’m not there with her.” Being a close friend of someone grieving a death can be tough, and some people don’t know what to say…but take it from me PERSONALLY…not saying anything, and not calling someone consistently to check up on them DOES NOT help. I’m not telling you to buy a book of 101 cliché things to say after one of your friends close one dies, but its good to show support because when people are grieving they start to see life in a bigger prospective, and may rate the strength of friendship from a friends actions in their time of needs.

Now back to my main idea concerning Death and his art form. I’d like to employ an anecdote that begins dating back to 96. A young Greg sat in a funeral home chair with his feet dangling, not yet long enough to reach the ground, itching and fidgeting in annoyance from a bowtie, strapped on a tad too tight. This young Greg sat in the back of that funeral home…thirty feet off from a golden brown rectangular prism, too naïve to realize its contents, counting down the time till he’d get home and bust out of his clothes and plop down in front of his Nintendo similar to what he did on Sunday’s during church. Surveying the room looking for one of the clocks he recently mastered reading in class (‘big hand…hour…small hand…minutes’) he noticed, amongst his family, several Euphemisms he’d never seen before. Never knew one day once again he’d be sitting in this room, and some little kid would be surveying his face, and his grandma wouldn’t be the loudest person wailing, she’d be the quietest. She’d show no emotion.

Shock came in March when we got that phone call that Uncle Paul was found unconscious in his room. “He’s alright though right? -- What hospital are we visiting him at? -- Can I stop by the store and get him a card?” Looking back those 14 some odd months ago, I realize this was Deaths rebuttal to me questioning his art a month prior while helping close friend’s aid from a catastrophic event that claimed one of the community’s better role models. I distinctly remember telling my friend “I honestly can’t say I know how you’re feeling…I’ve never experienced that…” and those of you who believe in jinx will nod your heads accordingly.

For a week I didn’t sleep. Not because my Uncle was gone, I was strong enough to cope with the loss, but maybe too strong, and my inability to muster one tear, brought me back to 96, and it drove me nuts. I still didn’t understand his art. This man was healthy. Why him, what was the cause? I’d never find out.

And maybe I should’ve reserved all questions in the back of my mind…never asking God for these answers…because like they say the lord works in mysterious ways.

I remember getting that call…”Greg…you at work?.. At The Garden? Come outside….We gotta go…NOW!” And a Naïve Greg still didn’t get it yet, not even as we pulled into the parking lot to find my Uncle outside on the phone, only to immediately hang up upon our arrival. Not even as the elevator seemed to move in slow motion when we only had three flights or so to go up. Not even as the drummers drum, hummed, “thump, thump…thump thump…thump thump.” Not even as my cousins broke down upon seeing my face. Not even as we stood in a circle around her bed, holding hands. I’d place my hand to my cheek to prove to myself: there must be something coming out…HAS TO BE.

Another sleepless week. Another dry faced visit to the same funeral home room. Another reason for me to get it but I still wouldn’t. Not yet. Not till I opened my eyes in that church across the street from the funeral home and found my cousin holding me up, because my legs had given up. Not till my vision became distorted, as if I’d been swimming. Not till the pastor said ‘Amen,’ not till the youngsters started frowning. Not till the Drummer slowed down his rhythm, “Thump….Thump…Thump.” And then it made the most sense it ever would. Death’s art lent me the first cry I’d experience in almost a decade. Yes the pain was present, but oddly enough, it felt good. I embraced it. And although I wish Death would’ve marked his canvas using other paints, the big picture opened up my mind.