Epilogue

I’m no expert when it comes to death or losing people. The first time I brushed against death was when my neighbor, Marvin, passed away. I’d moved into the neighborhood with my family when I was almost nine years old, and we’d quickly met our neighbors and become friends with them. Marvin taught my dad how to build a fire and gave us firewood. His wife, Cleo, would talk with us and invite us over. My grandparents all lived on the other side of the country, so Cleo and Marvin quickly became our adopted grandparents.

I was in the living room when I heard the news. And I thought it was some kind of joke. Fake. I knew people died, but not people I knew. He had to still be at the house with Cleo. He couldn’t just be gone. I cried at first, but then I was numb. It didn’t make sense to me until I went to his viewing. The introductory poem of this collection is a poem I wrote about attending Marvin’s funeral. I was counting on crying, on the grief and the loss hitting me hard. But, for some reason, I knew as soon as I saw him resting there beside the flowers that he—everything that made Marvin Marvin—was gone. His spirit had left, and the body he had left behind was just that, a body.

Years later, right before I was married to my sweet husband and the day before Christmas, my grandpa Clarence passed away. Like Marvin, there hadn’t really been any prior warning. I’d been so caught up in the rush and joy of getting married that, although I’d heard that Grandpa was in the hospital, I was confident he would be ok. Other family members had been in the hospital before and turned around. We would all be ok. But a phone call a couple days’ later proved me wrong. Grandpa was gone. I instantly thought back to the trip my fiancé and I had taken in October to see him and my grandma. I had insisted as soon as we got engaged that he needed to meet my grandparents who couldn’t travel and often missed out on family celebrations and moments. I was so happy he’d gotten to meet them, that I’d taken the time to see them right before Grandpa passed on. We visited my grandma right after our honeymoon. Even though it was clear that Grandpa wasn’t in his usual chair or telling me stories about his youth or playing a board game with us, it still felt like he was around, just out of sight. It didn’t feel like he was gone.

And while writing this collection, our family dog died. I didn’t think losing a pet would hit as hard as it did, but when she died I didn’t go to the vet. I didn’t go to the field where she was buried. I didn’t even say a proper goodbye, because it felt like she would always be there. Like she was part of the house and would always be there, tail wagging, tongue lolling out, begging to be petted when I got there. She was a silent support when everything weighed down on me and I just wanted a warm body next to me who was happy to see me, no matter what was going on. No matter what I had or hadn’t done. I kept the sadness to myself when she passed, but in the quiet of the bathroom I lost it, bawling, struggling to get out the simple phrase “I miss her” when my husband asked if I was ok.

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I know so many others out there have lost so much more than I have. A parent, who played with you as a child and was patient with you as a teenager. A spouse, your best friend and constant support. A child (which I can’t even begin to imagine as a young mom myself). Cousins, aunts or uncles, teachers, mentors, dear friends. And the word that was constantly on my mind when I thought about losing all these dear people was “ache.” It aches. It’s a constant pain that weighs on your heart and chest. Even after doing all my research and hearing so many stories about people who died and came back—their near-death experiences—death still hurts, because it means the person you love is no longer a warm body sitting beside you, hugging and holding you, even if they are in a better place now.

I hadn’t planned on writing a book about death, or near-death. But two days after I published my first collection of poetry, Unmaking, my dad texted a quote to me and my siblings—

“[Absolute knowledge of the afterlife] gives me a great relief, so that’s why I don’t take this very seriously down here. We’re just sort of dabbling around, playing around, being tested for our moral qualities, and above all the two things we can be good at, and no two other things can we do: we can forgive, and we can repent. It’s the gospel of repentance. We’re told that the angels envy men their ability to both forgive and to repent because they can’t do either, you see. But nobody’s very clever, nobody’s very brave, nobody’s very strong, nobody’s very wise. We’re all pretty stupid, you see. Nobody’s very anything. We’re not tested on those things, but in the things the angels envy us for—we can forgive, and we can repent. So, three cheers, let’s start repenting as of now.”

Hugh Nibley

For whatever reason, that quote electrified me with purpose. I didn’t know much about the topic, but I knew I needed to write a book about the emotions swirling through me, and poetry felt like the right medium. So many books have been written about near-death experiences, and they’re long books, often over three hundred pages. I wanted to make something short and accessible, even though poetry can sometimes be complicated and “mysterious.” I felt like the mystery added to the overarching narrative of Temporary Dying, which follows a person—me, you, a loved one—through a near-death experience I cobbled together from the many different experiences and stories I read in preparation to write this book. But I also hope that because I’ve packaged these thoughts and feelings into poems that they’re bite-sized and easy to share. Poetry can simplify difficult concepts, like death, with familiar images. Most of the poems in this collection use common images and ideas—a play, the beach, a library—to deal with the mysteries and questions of heaven, loss, grief, and God.

In the end, I hope this book makes death less frightening and makes the ache hurt less. I don’t think the pain of death will ever fully go away, even when we understand the wonder waiting for us on the other side—it hurts because we love others, and we want to be with them. But I hope this book shows that those who have passed on are much closer to us than it feels, and that this life is so short compared to the eternity and radiance waiting for us.