Death comes to us all; that is a brutal and unavoidable fact. When we think of our own death, or the death of those who are closest to us, we are filled with the pain of dread and despair. The more we love someone, the greater the loss, the more attached we are to them, the greater the sense of loneliness. Death is, in some ways, the penalty we pay for loving; and in considering our own death this can be helpful. But when the death of a loved one occurs it brings with it clouds of hopelessness — nothing seems worthwhile. How can it when the only conclusion is the loss of all things we view as valuable: our experiences, our closeness with the ones we love?

But we are wrong to feel like this. That life does not carry on forever is its greatest quality. It is only because life ends that we can appreciate the value in our actions, our achievements, our striving, our goals. Life is not an eternal struggle, it is a struggle within our grasp, a struggle that we take part in each day — and each day is all we have. How long we live does not matter, even a child takes part in the struggle, the action, the experience of living; this short, sharp burst of sensation that is filled with pictures, impressions and feelings. Nor does it matter that we achieve great things, indeed we should not trouble ourselves about achieving anything — the value always is in the effort that we put into pursuing those things we do — just that. And these things we do are sometimes happy and sometimes not — whichever, they are all part of our experience.

Every human life is a living, experiencing person who has values, standards, hopes, fears, loves and objects of desire. We may say one life has been shorter than some, but by the same account it has been longer than some. One life is of no less value than those who will live after, than it is of more value than those who are outlived. There is no perfect lifespan and no perfect time to die. Every life experiences what we all value — being alive — and every life, passed or passing, contains the same value that each of us hold as precious for ourselves. We are all companions in life, meeting the same end alone, hoping our living has been of value, never being too sure.

As I sit wondering why my builder’s Belle concrete mixer is parked, like a cuckoo, in the cosy dryness of my garage while the expelled chick, my car, sorely in need of protection from the elements, lies outside facing up to the cold and rain, I also wonder about the nature of how life deals things to us. Watching my mother-in-law searching for the right moment to wince when she stands up from her chair; remembering the terrible rescue attempt on my father-in-law when he had fallen, seemingly irretrievably, from the commode shortly before his death; recalling how my friend Frank spent three days in hospital and never got fed — anxiously leaving the ward to smoke, he either missed the menu sheet or the meal that, although un-ordered had been sent in the vain hope of finding a recipient. Or, I recall instances in my life which have been embarrassing, ridiculous, confusing — events which have sprung out of nowhere only to surprise, happenings that were entirely unforeseen, problems which could never be solved — and I realise there is more than a hint of humour to the whole thing. Indeed the worst moments seem, on recollection, to be the funniest, the most absurd, and they are the bringers of the greatest joy. In itself that is strange. I do not think that grief in funny. I do not think that tragedy should be laughed at, but in grief, in the grip of tragedy, there is still the ever-present absurdity of it all, still recurring sources of amusement, that is what life is. I remember, as a child, sitting at home eating my tea, having been sent home to see, just see, if the watch I claimed was lost might just be at home, while the rest of the class stayed in as suspects until my return. It was a three mile walk home and my mum would not let me go back on such a dark, rainy night (particularly as the watch was indeed at home). I can still see the despairing face of the bedraggled classmate at the door who was eventually sent by the teacher to ascertain if I was going to return with news of the watch. Is that terror? And I recall with a shudder, being sent to a junior school, road crossing ‘lollipop’ on hand, to conduct a road safety lecture when I was nineteen. ‘You can see the first three hundred and fifty before break and the second three hundred and fifty after break,’ the head teacher told me as the keenly expectant teachers lined the walls to listen to my, as yet unprepared, words of road safety wisdom. Is that more terrifying than life itself?