The Stalker

There is something deeply unsettling about The Stalker aka The Grim Reaper.

Stalker shadows our every move. Stalker knows us intimately. Sadly, it’s a one sided relationship tilted in The Grim Reaper’s favour, unless, of course, we consciously seek The Reaper out by purposely submitting to his deceptive embrace. How many leave their abode in the morning with every intention of returning at dusk for the evening meal? As those plans are consciously or subconsciously formulated, Stalker in the background rubs his hands with glee in the knowledge that, that morning will be the last one will walk through the front door; let alone eat an evening meal.  You see, Stalker plans to strike with his vicious, savage grip.

It is said that people of faith are emboldened by the knowledge that death is but a stepping stone to life ever-lasting.  Be that as it may, it is not uncommon even for them, to falter when the Grim Reaper’s tentacles snap out to grasp one of their own.  Particularly when those tentacles entrap and snare in one who is still so vibrant.  One so full of promise for tomorrow.  One loved more than life itself.

Life in its mercy has a way of ensuring that upon the immediate demise of a dear one, there are others close by to provide comfort. To hold your hand. To ease the pain. It helps somewhat. As plans for the final send-off progress, there is a solace of sorts to be derived from the fact you can still do things for your departed one.  There are clothes to be purchased. There is their grooming to be attended to. (Truth be told, why these things should be done does, in a way, defy logic). You go through the motions until the hour you finally have to face the inevitable. You have to let go. From the corner of your eye, your line of vision picks up a freshly dug hole; sitting vacant, waiting to receive. In due course, the casket obliges and is lowered in to this six-foot-deep hungry hole. The finality of what the Stalker has done to your life washes over you when you hear the thud of the soil on the casket. THUD! Scrape for soil! THUD! Scrape for soil! THUD! You want to block your ears. You want to scream. You want to retrieve your loved one from that box. You worry that they will suffocate in that contraption.  You experience a jumble of thoughts.  Your breath gets stifled. Then it’s done. The shoveling of soil stops. It’s over. Taking that first step away from the site is brutally hard. It feels like you are turning your back on your treasured one. Should it be raining you worry they will get wet. They will get cold. They will get sick. They will be scared and lonely.

Left alone with your thoughts, you try to rationalize that, after a protracted illness at last they rest; free from pain. Alas, why did they have to suffer in the first place? If it was a freak accident, why? Why? Why? Why?

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.