The dead never really die. A heart may stop beating in this life, but as long as there is just one person who remembers one thing about a picture, a story, or an event, then the dead live on.
Ten months out from the death of my son, I know this to be true. Seeing someone run with wild abandon always reminds me of him. Watching a video clip of a soccer match brings him back to my heart. Hearing a song by Tool, The Grateful Dead, or Pink Floyd causes me to remember the music he introduced me to and the joy it brought to both of us. It is a good kind of haunting, bringing memories of happiness and love—the kind of memories that moved our relationship from father and son to one of friendship.
But there is a downside to haunting. It brings rage when Fentanyl comes flooding across our borders, and the politicians don’t seem to care. It brings pain when someone callously speaks about “addicts” as if they are or were worthless pounds of flesh. And, probably more than anything, there is a haunting that comes with the never-ending question, “Could I have done something else to save him?”
In both the good and the bad, the joy and the pain, the dead keep living, and I’m okay with that. Because these things confirm that he was real and that the emotions I feel today are real. While some wish to believe that he is in an intangible place, bathed in the peace and glow of divinity, I believe he is reflecting on his 38 years and getting ready for his next adventure.
So, it is my hope that I will always experience the haunting of my loved ones. The dead will never die, because they still live with me in my memory and the stories I share. They inspire my characters who often cross that narrow space between fact and fiction.
Happy Halloween.
