I want to think of it like this: that learning to live with death is the last gift our parents have for us.
When we were spring, they were already summer. Now their year is over we can see the full extent of life’s horizon before us for the first time. We have a chance to understand, to absorb the loss of those we loved before we knew there were words for what we felt, and in the same moment to see our own deaths rising to meet us like a road. It is not comfortable, often. Often we loved them ambiguously, with difficulty, I know, and it was aching work to set aside the ways they hurt us, to tease out the love that bubbled beneath.
And it is true that for many of us our parents’ deaths came too soon, when we were young and unprepared, some of us still children, some barely more than that, just over the threshold of adulthood, wondering what, if anything, maturity was, and whether it would suit us if we found it. Our lives turn on their axes when our mothers and fathers die; when it comes too soon, we can struggle to find north again. Some of us never do. We become homing birds with no direction home.
When we close our parents’ eyes after death, many things end. We lose an emotional resource, a bottomless well of contentment and discontent. We lose a presence. A doorway to the past, to our childhoods and our younger selves. We lose maps to realities whose mere existence we relied on all our lives. But we also lose a fact, perhaps the first, most vital fact we ever learned, the first and most fixed of points on our compass.
How we define that fact will vary for each one of us. But loved or unloved as we may have been, that fact doesn’t stop being true; it is nonetheless transposed when it becomes so abruptly historic and joins the present of things past. We hear unfamiliar parts in our melody.
It remains inside us, our fact, like the lodestones songbirds use for their migrations; it pulls us towards a destination we will never find again. But is externalised too, abstracted. It becomes a thing we can slowly disinter from our grief, hold up to the light, that we can anatomise and chart, burnish and tend as we choose — and that we can never dispose of, try as we might. It becomes an artefact; totemic, yes, however much we may learn about its provenance, the pre-history of our parents’ lives.
While they live, we learn to see our parents more clearly because we age ourselves. As we go through the same sad and lovely transformations they endured before us – often that they conspired to hide from us, as those who love us do – we begin to comprehend them as people as well as parents: lucky and unlucky, cocky and afraid, uncertain captains of their crafts, learning the cruelty and wonder of the sea as they go. Our parents establish a climate for us we will never outrun.
Later, after death, we slowly see that climate more surely for what it is. We can identify its streams and currents and storms, and through them learn more about our own systems, where our pressures and depressions are and what they lead to.
At death, our parents become ageless. We continue to age, to catch them, outstrip them even. If we are lucky, and they have grown old before us, our road is more known for having seen them light the way. We know a little of what is like for mind and body to decay, what enemies we have to expect by nightfall, with what ferocity they attack, and where and how. A little knowledge is a sobering thing. But that little knowledge is also a comfort because it comes wrapped inside the ordinary courage of the loved, who hid their horrors from us as best they could, and lived, as best they could, until life had enough of them, or them of life.
I suspect most of the little wisdoms I may ever have are in this last gift. I have only just begun to grub away the hurt and find them.