I was proud of that ritual. It had been a necessary thing, and I was proud that Sarah and I were the ones to do it. But it also made my sense of loss all the deeper. This was it; the tree was planted, the words had been said. The circle had been closed. Like any writer, when I looked back on the things I had said, I saw flaws, omissions, things that could have been done better. Things I should have done better. Didn't Tom deserve that?
I believe in the cycle—hoof and horn, vine and grain—but I still stumble over the finality of death, of the irreversible nature of time. Part of me still expects Tom to be at our Samhain party this weekend, accordion in hand. But he won't, and never will again. That's what death is.
I'm afraid that, no, I am not comfortable with death. I doubt anybody really is.