Death is the ultimate natural disaster.
Mourners, wracked by the tremors of devastation, are momentarily devoid of reason. Some numb, some inconsolabe; all having lost something valuable beyond words. Friends and family stand at the edge of a chasm where a person once was; a gaping fissure in the landscape of their lives.
We grab our loved ones by the shoulders, or we hold their faces in our hands, and look into their eyes imploringly. Are you okay? Are you okay? We scan their bodies for scratches and other signs of harm. Seeing them intact brings us relief.
What’s done is done, so why do we do this? To look for that spark, for evidence that life is still there? Or with hope, that in reflection, we see that we still exist?
Next, some are moved to action, while others suffer a delayed reaction. Food, comfort and various arrangements; all are given priority. In the meanwhile, and a bit too late, word spreads. The damage is done; not even a blip in the radar of the globe. A momentary distraction, maybe. An uttered tsking or muttered prayer.
Then. Lives are rebuilt. Routines are reconstructed to the best of our resources. Life, not even the slightest bit ruffled by Death’s insult, goes on. The crevasse gives way to undergrowth, becoming less of an eye sore and more of a precaution, a wayward reminder. The void, while obscured, is always there.