“The death of a beloved is an amputation.” (C. S. Lewis)
We had a pleasant afternoon and evening yesterday with my nephew and his wife and their very young son and infant daughter. I couldn’t help but think, though, of my brother, and of the fact that these grandchildren never knew him.
When I come to southern California, my mind unavoidably turns to my brother and to my parents, who lived here and who are buried here. I associate many sights and experiences in this area (and others, but especially here) with them. The pleasure of being “home” is always tinged with just a slight flavor of melancholy — as, with increasing age, many pleasures tend to be.
Children shouldn’t, and usually don’t, experience terrible loss. The older we grow, however, the more unavoidable such experience becomes. And not only in the form of the passing of those we love — though that is the most acute and important form. Defeats, disappointments, injuries, missed opportunities, regretted compromises, abandoned dreams, lost friendships, ruptured relationships, the straying of those for whom we care, sorrows of all kinds — there is great joy in this world, but also pain. It was apparently meant to be so.
Posted from Newport Beach, California
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