An End Without An End

A poignant tale of love and loss exacerbated by death. 

It is the enigma of life in that death impacts the living in ways varied, so it seems. When I heard she died, well after her death, I was doubly pained. Not that it was any untimely for she lived long enough to become a great-grandmother. Even then, death, after all, is death that is finite. But she made hers, an end without an end, haunting me no end.

It’s as if, more than her pitiable death, that’s what it was as I have learned, it’s my hurt ego that is paining me; so be it, for it implies that I valued her more than either of us ever thought. All said and done, looks like love, in the long run, tends to leave its poetic course to take the prosaic route, and that’s the irony of life.