The Washington Post’s chief arts critic, Philip Kennicott,
is publishing a memoir that looks at the connection between mourning and music,
based on his experience following the death of his mother.
The Post published an excerpt of the book in the Sunday,
Feb. 16 edition. I won’t get into the music aspect of Kennicott’s piece, but he
said something that hit home to me. He noted that his mother was unhappy
throughout her life, and he wondered what her final cogent moments were like – was
she relieved to be dying and to be separated from her sadness? Was she
terrified to think there was no afterlife (she was an ardent atheist) or at
peace to think that there was about to be a silent nothingness? Did she reflect
on what could have been?
We will all face a day of reckoning, when we will ask
ourselves many of the same questions as Kennicott supposed his mother asked.
When my mother died last Thanksgiving, I too wondered what
her last thoughts were. Was she looking forward to reuniting with her husband,
who predeceased her by five years? Was her faith strong enough to not doubt the
existence of an afterlife? Was she pleased with her life?
Kennicott’s article stirred in me some of the questions I
had had about my mom and made me confront those questions about myself. When it’s
time to cash in my chips, how will I account for my time? Will I be content,
believing I had a good life well spent? I’m sure I’ll rue the many, many wasted
hours, of not achieving more, of not confiding in or sharing my feelings with
my loved ones, of too often being in attendance but not present, of being in
many cases an observer rather than a participant.
Seven weeks into 2020 is too late to make New Year
resolutions but it’s never too late to take stock, recalibrate, and try to live
a life that at the end I’ll be able to look back on and go in peace.
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