----~~oOo~~----

Probably the most punishing aspect of life is this insane belief we all hold that there is ever enough time. We walk around with this vague understanding that everything is temporary, but we live as if we're immortal; scheduling coffee dates weeks out, postponing calls home, letting texts sit unresponded for days. We believe there will always be another chance, another conversation, another moment to say what needs to be said.

And then someone dies.

Death is the one thing that unfogs that lens the clearest, forcing us to see what's been right in front of us the whole time before we inevitably slip back into our routines and forget again. It's like being handed the most powerful telescope imaginable, one that reveals with perfect clarity what's truly important and what's just noise; only to have it yanked away once the funeral ends, and the condolences stop showing up at your door.

What is it about walking outside after a death that feels so.. mean? Is it that the world isn't suddenly rendered in black and white like in the movies? That the weather doesn't match the rain inside your heart? Or maybe it's just the simple, brutal fact that the world keeps on moving; not coming to a complete stop like it has in your home, where time feels suspended behind the pulled curtains, where their last message glows unanswered, because you know if you answer they will never write back.

The worst part might be that we never learn. We experience loss, we recognize our mistakes; all the things left unsaid, the time spent lost in our day-to-day rituals; and then we gradually slide back into the same patterns, the same delusion of the infinite tomorrow. We accumulate regrets like loose change, thinking we'll cash them in at the end of the day for wisdom, but the problem is we never do.

I don't know what your grieving process is like, but I imagine, like me, when you're tangled in the grief mop you tend to find "signs" everywhere. Maybe you're just looking for a signal that they're somehow okay with being dead, or that they're still connected to you in some impossible-to-understand way. The world starts speaking a language only you can understand. A certain smell, a particular shade of evening light, a stranger's laugh that sounds just a little too familiar. We find ourselves in places that remind us of them, or music finds us at precisely the moment when our defenses are down.

Are we just desperate for connection, manufacturing meaning from randomness? Probably. But does it matter when, for those few seconds, the veil between here and gone feels thin enough to whisper through? In those moments, however brief, you feel them again, and time stops just long enough to say what you couldn't before, and you can trick yourself into feeling like they can hear it.

Grief is an excavator, unearthing all the ways someone has become part of our foundation without our noticing. It's less about loss and more about revelation: their absence creates a negative space that perfectly outlines their presence in your life. How they taught us to appreciate certain music, how they shaped our sense of humor, how their voice still narrates their stories in our head. It's as if they were writing themselves into us all along, ensuring they'd remain here even when they couldn't stay.

I'm not religious, but I find myself obsessed with the idea of Heaven. Marrying these two points has lead me here: I don't think Heaven is harps and clouds. Heaven is getting another chance; a "start from the top" where we'd know exactly how precious each moment is. Where we'd understand that there isn't enough time, there never was, and that's exactly what makes it so sacred. Where we'd say "I love you" not as a goodbye, but as a hello. In the morning, before work. On the phone, before bed. Right now, because you can.

Maybe Heaven is the simple gift of being present and honest with someone you love while they're still here to notice.

----~~oOo~~----

osmo@cosmicosmo.co