Sunday, January 13, 2019

Gone too soon

Back in August of 2016 after my best friend Mines passed away, I created a private Spotify playlist named after her, of songs dealing with loss to help me cope with the pain. When a close friend's mom—Tita Mildred who was like a second mom to me—passed away last year, I renamed that playlist after her. Five days ago I donated blood to Nikka, a friend from work who, after losing her baby just a few moments after childbirth, was fighting for her life due to a ruptured liver. She lost that fight two days later and I found myself playing that same Spotify playlist again for comfort. Realizing that I may never have to be without this playlist and that changing its name to whomever recently died would just be too tedious and heartbreaking, I just renamed it "Gone Too Soon."

That's what these dear ones were. Gone too soon. Tita Mildred in her early 60s was the oldest of them but was a lot of times even more energetic than her daughter and me combined. Mines and I still haven't figured out what our souls are calling out for whenever we would get the "empty feeling" we'd meet most weekends to talk about. Jiji, a stray cat my ex-partner and I rescued in August last year, wasn't even three months old yet and was just with us for two short weeks when he died of dehydration. And Nikka. She has a nine-year old daughter from another man, had just married this funny, very personable guy who used to be a colleague, and they almost had a son. But just like that, four became two. And I, along with so many others who loved this sweet and gentle girl, mourn again.

Tita Mildred and one of her many dogs.

As we age—and this is a morbid thought—are we all just exponentially growing closer to death and therefore witnessing and almost palpably feeling much more of it around us? Or was the mortality rate the same when we were younger, we just didn't care then, maybe because our parents were there to protect us from such bad news?

I'm a 31-year-old who lives alone but still has a complete family in my hometown, sometimes experiences an existential crisis and, on occasions that seem to be getting more and more frequent, hear about the death of someone dear to me. But most nights I get by with just a glass of wine and a music playlist I made for the specific mood I'm having. Mines was as close to me as a sister and I still feel the hole that she left behind in her passing. I dread the time when balms like wine and a customized playlist wouldn't be enough for me to find solace in anymore after the death of someone even closer.

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