Pop

Rejoicing over any death is crass. But neither will I pretend to be sad that a strange pop singer, whose music I have disliked all my life, is dead. Or a pop actress. Or a talk show sidekick. Come to that, I expect all I will feel when I finally hear of my father's death is a sense of relief. For the last, I have a vague plan in mind of a forgiveness ritual. Their gods may judge them, I will not. Neither will I mourn, not for them.


For every death I have witnessed, I have shed a tear, uncalledfor, unintended, but it arises from somewhere deep. Every organ procurement, every trauma that came in, not to come out, every hospice patient from long ago. If I was there, Death levied a tear or so from me, willingly paid. For people I did not know, save as Witness, Washer, Hand Holder.

My personal griefs are of the same flavor, but more than a taste, meals upon meals, diet for a year of tears and emptiness. Not more real, just more personal, full of daily loss.

And I really can't stand the Loved One's music, much played today at work. But I held my tongue, not knowing how others mourn, or what he meant to them.