I just got back from this big, yearly festival my mom and I go to every year. It's loud, there's good music, plenty of entertainment (mostly just watching drunks stumble around wondering where they are), mediocre food. You know, festival stuff.
My mom got a text from her cousin while we were on the way back to the car. "Call me." was all it said.
My great aunt had been in the hospital the past week for pneumonia.
She passed away today.
My mother's cousin had just finished feeding her her dinner. Her last sibling had come to visit her hours earlier.
And she fell asleep. Our minds don't automatically think about how those eyes may never open again, how that heart may fail to beat. It doesn't cross our minds.
Don't get me wrong, it probably should.
Life is legitimately a game. Not even a guessing game. We can't even assume what might happen next. It's not even a fun game. We play because it's all we know. There is no other game to play.
In the two hours she's been gone, nothing has changed. There's a low rumble of thunder coming from outside. Moby is sprawled out on the the old leather couch, getting white hairs in every crevice. My mother sits in the kitchen on the phone. I sit in the dark of the living room writing today's entry. There's one less human here on earth. But in reality, people die all the time, constantly. It doesn't phase us. We don't even blink an eye at the thought. The world keeps turning. The same goes when someone we love dies.
Life is strange like that, I guess.
Thank you, Cita. We all love you more than you could ever know.
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