Trio

Recently in my family there have been a trio of deaths. All of them have been in a remarkably short space of time, none interconnected. The thought of these missing relatives has had my brain engaged in the ideas of what makes a well lived life?

Just before Christmas, my Aunt D died and it seemed for all of us a release, a blessing from the curse, for she had forgotten everything, until it seemed she had forgotten to breathe. Her life had ceased to be her own for a long time, as the disease stole memory after memory, until there was only a fragile body left.

On New Year's Day, my Uncle R died and it was a surprise, as he had just been diagnosed with an illness. I went to his funeral and was disgusted by the ritual. The priest dressing in his vestments before us after wanting us in the church 20 minutes earlier, so we sat and watched him, as if a transformation was to happen, but it didn't. He regularly got Uncle R's name wrong and called him the names of his son and brother, and painted a picture of a man I didn't recognise. He slurped at the excess of Communion wine. When my Aunt, driven by her promise to deliver a eulogy, stood up to speak, he had the church doors opened to the busy street. As she spoke, the microphone could barely pick up the thin thread of her voice. All it would have taken would have been him to lean over and adjust it, as she told the story of his life. Instead he stood, vacantly rocking on his feet, his hands fiddling with the pockets of his cheap chinos.

This week, my Uncle K died and it was the biggest shock. He seemed well. He had some  could heart an diabetes issues, but there was also a gun at the scene. It has now come to light that the gun had been discharged and now we are all wandering around trying to piece the clues together, if it was on purpose or an accident, the questions just breed and no light is shed.

All I can seem to arrive at amid my sadness and my tail chasing thoughts, is that a well lived life is surely not reduced by its end?