Death is like an elusive shadow that strokes the edges of childhood, but dares not penetrate to near to the heart of an infant’s memory. As one grows older, Death gets braver, appearing in recognisable forms of fiction, fairy tales and distant relatives. Yet even when it gets too close, its draining impact is absorbed by the Elders.
Yet there comes a time when the wards placed around the young and the youthful begin to disintegrate, and Death grows braver, more audacious as he inches nearer. In time, as eyes are widened to the ways of the world, one cannot escape his leering gaze, his wide smile, the cold chill as he strokes the veins that lace the outside of one’s heart. He breathes gently, a mixture of dolour, carrion and sweetly fragrant perfume, an ephemeral ‘Hello’, which could easily be a lacklustre ‘Goodbye.’
We become the sponge generation, the absorbers, who must begin to take the weight and load of Death’s presence. No longer shielded, we are the shield, and it is our loved ones, whose thin lidded eyes close, whose chests shudder, stomachs groan, and whose hearts erratically shimmer in their rib like cages of yellowing bone.
I didn’t realise, that I had so easily become a part of this mournful generation.