Death and Love

A few months ago a close cousin in Las Vegas called while my mother was traveling. Since I don’t answer mom’s phone I screened to hear if I needed to pick up. My cousin’s voice sounded tired and distressed and I knew something was wrong. So I called her back. Her husband had died that morning. He was in his 80’s and his death was sudden and unexpected. Whenever I visited Las Vegas I would look forward to seeing my cousins who have always been my favorite relatives. We would meet for lunch or breakfast at whatever casino I was at on the strip, insisting that they treat. They would hold hands as they wandered, people watched and poked fun at the tourists—obviously still in love and needing each other. And I would think how much I wanted that. To have a lifetime of loving another person, to have such an intimate connection. They had been together for more than 60 years.

Recently, I was with my sister and my mother called informing us that an old family friend had died. He had a massive heart attack which, being in his 80’s, was fatal. He was my dad’s best friend all through high school and they had joined the navy together. We spent time with him and his wife throughout the years while my brother, sister and I grew up, before and after my father died. He and his wife traveled the world together and were interested in different cultures and cuisines. Not having children of their own, they had a close circle of nieces, nephews, brothers, and sisters, many by adoption. He and his wife had been together more than 60 years.

I’ve been thinking about death lately. Not my own necessarily, but immortality in general and of lifetimes of partnerships and love. Images from childhood flash of outings and trips, holidays and get togethers, parties in the basement of the old house. Of pairs of names that are always associated with one another, tying them together in personal history. Black and white and color photos recollect stories as faded as the images themselves. But the passage of time feels sharp and focused as chapters close and life keeps moving onward.

Pondering these relationships I feel a strange mix of sad and envious. Sad for the obvious reasons: for the loss of a favored person; for the ending of memory and history; for the loneliness that comes with separation. But I feel envious of their lifetimes together. All that love and companionship. All the dependability and trust. All the intimacy and affection. Both of these couples came together at a time when people stayed together and stuck it out through bad and good. No one knows but them what went on behind closed doors. The fights, the bickering, the making up, the lovemaking, times of distress, periods of depression, heights of success and the glow of happiness. But they stayed together unconditionally, partners through and through.

It’s funny how love sneaks up on you and grabs hold. How it can take a moment or years, at times, to make itself truly known. How it can make you stupid and happy. To make that leap of faith and risk a broken heart. Love grows to the point of bursting and has to be let out with a touch or a kiss or a word. Maybe I should stop thinking about the inevitability of death and focus on the eternity of love. The passing of husbands and wives, partners and friends can make us sit up and take notice. My thoughts of immortality have created a compelling need to make sure that one person knows how much I love them and need their companionship. To desire a lifetime together. And how much I want to be holding hands, shuffling through the casino in our walkers making fun of the tourists. Obviously, still in love.

(For Don and Larry)