A sadness long endured

I've a long-time friend in my childhood town of Moss that I really appreciate. Since my father died last September 18, we've spent a good many hours talking on the phone, reminiscing about the ones we've lost and venting the pain and sadness that still lingers on inside.

My friend has proven to be the best of listeners, as he himself has suffered a similar loss. Being an only child, the death of his mother in June of 2007 hit him as hard - or even harder - than the passing of my dad did fifteen months later. Joined in friendship already in our formative teenage years, we've now been even more tightly knit together by grief's untimely appearance.

THE LAST TABOO: DEATH

Living in a culture that vehemently shuns death while frantically attempting to perpetuate life, I've really found our conversations to be an emotional oasis. They have been, and still are, a source of mutual strength and comfort, a much-needed respite from an environment that discourages and frowns upon protracted expressions of mourning.

We're somehow supposed to bounce back to status quo within weeks following death's visit to our households and families. Whereas private outpourings of sorrow are quite readily condoned even years after someone has died, when in public we're supposed to put on a brave face, tackling this most personal of traumas is if it were a bout of flu.

TALK ABOUT IT

My friend understands my need to get things off my chest every once in a while, whether or not it involves an unmitigated flow of tears. I loved my father too much to casually shrug off signs of grief. The only way I envision myself being able to carry this burden of loss, is by forever recognizing and indulging the impulse to remember. By talking about my father to a sympathetic friend, I'll be able to reconcile myself to this sadness long endured; a sadness that will most likely lose its sharp edges as time moves on.

In the meantime, I'll allow myself to be sustained by the glimmer of hope offered by one man's unique conquest of death.