Death is a situation that we’re forced to absorb, and to watch others surrender to. It’s one of the few real facts of life, but its fidelity isn’t sweet, like a recurring rash with no known cure.
Amidst the non-stop tears that came with saying goodbye to my childhood pet, I was reminded that there’s serious relief in unabashedly letting it out, and that–despite evidence to the contrary–the little girl I once was is still here.
At first glance, that question might seem harsh, or the answer obvious: because death is sad, of course, and we admire a lot of them as artists. But I think there’s more to it than that.