Death Closure Quotes

Closure is just as delusive-it is the false hope that we can deaden our living grief.

The reason 'closure' is a cliche is that it is used too often, too imprecisely, and doesn't in any case reflect reality. In reality, such closure in broken friendships and much else in life is rarely achieved; only death brings closure and then not always for those still living.

The moonlight rained down on the beach as if to shine a spotlight on my solitude, and I wanted to cry out at it, ‘Why did you take her? You, surrounded by all of your twinkling stars and infinite wonders and darkness. There’s already enough beauty where you are.

To grow up with a mother who had run off to India, never to be heard from again, that was one thing — there was closure in that, its own kind of death. But to find out she was fifteen stops away on the Number One train to Canal and had failed to be in touch was barbaric. Whatever romantic notions I might have harbored, whatever excuses or allowances my heart had ever made on her behalf, blew out like a match.

Dating back to the Iliad, ancient Egypt and beyond, burial rites have formed a critical function in most human societies. Whether we cremate a loved one or inter her bones, humans possess a deep-set instinct to mark death in some deliberate, ceremonial fashion. Perhaps the cruelest feature of forced disappearance as an instrument of war is that it denies the bereaved any such closure, relegating them to a permanent limbo of uncertainty.

...our loves ones truly are ever-present. We may bury their bodies or scatter their ashes, but their spirits are boundless and do not accompany them to the grave. The terms 'letting go' and 'closure' are just empty words. They mean nothing to someone who has suffered through the death of a loved one. Instead of insisting on figuratively burying our dead, why not keep them close to us? Love doesn't die when we do.

I thought missing my Dad would be the hardest thing I’d ever do; but the worst thing, the hardest thing, had turned out to be angry with someone you couldn’t fight it out with.

We've been very lonely, but we had it easy. Because death is so heavy - we, too young to know about it, couldn't handle it. After this you and I may end up seeing nothing but suffering, difficulty and ugliness, but if only you'll agree to it, I want for us to go on to more difficult places, happier places, what ever comes, together. I want you to make the decision after you're completely better, so take your time thinking about it. In the mean time, though, don't disappear on me.

I think it is in grief that we need some reminder of our humanity--and sometimes, someone to say it for us. Poetry steps in at those moments when ordinary words fail: poetry as ceremony, as closure to what cannot be closed.

When you love someone, they're a poignant daily part of your life. When you lose them, you are separated from that relationship. Moving forward doesn't mean you leave that person behind; it means weaving them into the narrative of your life.

This was incredibly foolish. To live just to die. And to die so easily.

I came to Logan’s Beach for closure. Instead, I was leaving the same way I left the first time. With a broken heart.

Perhaps we become accustomed to our grief and, as it becomes increasingly familiar, increasingly part of the emotional landscape, it becomes a dullness. But there is no closure, no forgetting. One mourns those one has loved who have died until one joins them. It happens soon enough.

...he wonders by what process virtually any discussion about the war seems to profane these ultimate matters of life and death. As if to talk of such things properly we need a mode of speech near the equal of prayer, otherwise just shut, shut your yap and sit on it, silence being truer to the experience than the star-spangled spasm, the bittersweet sob, the redeeming hug, or whatever this fucking closure is that everybody's always talking about. They want it to be easy and it's just not going to be.

Maybe learning to live with the question marks, recognizing that closure does not always occur, is all I really needed to do. I hadn't expected, coming from a world that fights to see life's beginnings in black and white, to be so comforted by a shade of gray. The notion of the water child made sense to me. What I had experienced was not a full life, nor was it a full death, but it was a real loss.

We were a religious sect consisting of two people, and now half the congregation was gone. There would be no closure, no healing. I would simply adjust myself to a new and severely depleted reality. The world would come to an end, as it always does, one world at a time.

Death is an ending, but it is not the end. The day your loved one died marks the beginning of a new life for you, a life where your loved one is no longer present in the physical world. It’s a horrendously painful ending, and simultaneously, it marks a new beginning for you. Their death is not the end of your story as a whole, but the end of a very beautiful and important chapter in your life. Your task in this new beginning is to grieve the painful ending— and to learn how to navigate life in the aftermath of loss.

It is thus the adventure of poetry, not the closure of philosophy, that most truly reflects the human condition.

The only cure here was death. They were both gone out of my life.

Is it about lack of closure, unfinished business?" he asked. "Or perhaps that, whether people are with us or not, the relationship keeps on going. The dead only leave the room; they remain firmly in our lives.

Closure: Now there’s a silly idea. Nothing ever gets closure, the only real closure is death. Maybe it’s not a good idea to stare a dying bird in the eye. It might reflect something back at you that you don’t want to see.

I felt this lightness settling on me, which was new. It's not closure, because I will live with Matt's death and the pain of it every day and the grief will stay with me. I just felt that I was carrying it differently. It was a place inside me that was more contained, it wasn't all of me. It wasn't like raw, open grief. It was almost like the scab had grown over. Occasionally you pick at it, or it might come off when you're not expecting it and you start bleeding again.

That’s one of the reasons I’m here. In town. For closure. I’ve made so many mistakes. So freaking many.” “Did you find it?” Preppy asked. “Your closure?” I looked over to the dark corner and felt his eyes on me when I whispered, “Not even close.

I fooled myself into believing I was after closure, when all I really wanted was never to let go. Because, as Alison’s scar was her most sacred vanity, her death was mine. Because I needed a murder mystery. Without one, what choice did I have but to be angry at Alison for making herself so indispensable to me, to all of us, and then being so careless with herself? (Drinking and drugs, a reckless swim, a stupid accident. The police had suggested this basic scenario from the beginning, but my parents had refused to accept it. Why would they have? Why would anyone accept such a sad and pointless story, a tale that was not even cautionary but simply tragic, a shame?) What choice was there, finally, but to admit that I hated Alison every bit as much as I loved her? I hated her while she was alive for the way her dazzling, spectacular self took up the entire spotlight, and I hated her even more for the oppressive shadow she cast with her death. How could I ever be enough? How could I possibly compare to someone who never had to grow up?

Life has meaning because death exists. We love the good times in life because they're fleeting, because we know they will soon be replaced by something else. But death itself is nothing to be afraid of. It's a natural part of life, the natural closure that everything builds to. Working in a nursing home has taught me that: We're all lunatics on a big space rock, pretending to be sane, pretending we can fix everything, pretending we won't die.

From love's absolutism to love's absolution? No: I don't believe in the cosy narratives of life some find necessary, just as I choke on comforting words like redemption and closure. Death is the only closure I believe in; and the wound will stay open until that final shutting of the doors. As for redemption, it's far too neat, a movie-maker's bromide; and beyond that, it feels like something grand, which human beings are too imperfect to deserve, much less bestow upon themselves.

Closure, if it exists at all, is either for the afterlife or for those who stay behind. Ultimately, it is the living who'll close the ledger of my life, not I. We pass along our shadow selves and entrust what we've learned, lived, and known to afterpeople. What else can we give those we've loved after we die than pictures of who we were when we were children and had yet to become the fathers they grew up to know. I want those who outlive me to extend my life, not just to remember it.

Instead of giving a timetable to grief and how we relate to the death, an icon or a shrine accepts that grief and death are still here with us even now because we simply have ongoing bonds with the deceased. They will forever be a part of us and instead of trying to "heal" and find decathexis, we must learn to adjust because love has this amazing way of living on past death, in both grief and joy. You aren't sick with grief; you're healthy with grief. And you don't need closure; grief will always be the in-between, and that's okay.

legitimate comparison must begin with life rather than death. Death is not a solution, but only a subject. It must be a source of disquiet, never of satisfaction. It must not, above all, supply the rounding rhetorical flourish that brings a story to a defined end. Since life gives meaning to death, rather than the other way around, the important question is not: what political, intellectual, literary, or psychological closure can be drawn from the fact of mass killing? Closure is a false harmony, a siren song masquerading as a swan song. The important question is: how could (how can) so many human lives be brought to a violent end?

Why do we care about Lizzie Borden, or Judge Crater, or Lee Harvey Oswald, or the Little Big Horn? Mystery! Because of all that cannot be known. And what if we did know? What if it were proved—absolutely and purely—that Lizzie Borden took an ax? That Oswald acted alone? That Judge Crater fell into Sicilian hands? Nothing more would beckon, nothing would tantalize. The thing about Custer is this: no survivors. Hence, eternal doubt, which both frustrates and fascinates. It’s a standoff. The human desire for certainty collides with our love of enigma. And so I lose sleep over mute facts and frayed ends and missing witnesses. God knows I’ve tried. Reams of data, miles of magnetic tape, but none of it satisfies even my own primitive appetite for answers. So I toss and turn. I eat pints of ice cream at two in the morning. Would it help to announce the problem early on? To plead for understanding? To argue that solutions only demean the grandeur of human ignorance? To point out that absolute knowledge is absolute closure? To issue a reminder that death itself dissolves into uncertainty, and that out of such uncertainty arise great temples and tales of salvation? I prowl and smoke cigarettes. I review my notes. The truth is at once simple and baffling: John Wade was a pro. He did his magic, then walked away. Everything else is conjecture. No answers, yet mystery itself carries me on.

Be your own anchor, and sail along the shore of Life with a bunch of smiles. In a whirlwind of a thousand journeys, we flow through Life, as if crossing through an Ocean of an endless voyage. Sometimes we marvel at the ports we glide along, sometimes we chase the waves with our heart and soul, while sometimes we lose our way only to find a lighthouse guiding us along, always catching our breath at the majestic sunrises and sunsets. Our happy moments and connections are like those ports that cross our path while the moments of pain direct our steps to the lighthouse within our soul, as we keep growing ourselves through so many births and deaths of our soul just as the sunrises and sunsets. I want some of you to know and acknowledge the fact that it's absolutely okay to let go, to let the ship of your Life cross the port, because however beautiful that port might be, your journey shouldn't stop, it is not meant to stop. Well, the most brutal yet beautiful truth is, initially everyone stays but eventually no one does. It is brutal because it hurts, it sometimes makes you wonder why it has to end and it's beautiful because everything that ends often ends up gifting you with an invaluable experience filled with beautiful lessons and memories. Understand that it doesn't have to be chaotic, it can be a peaceful goodbye. And even when sometimes it might end in a turmoil, your soul would finally find the grace to give it a closure it demands. Understand that the pain that wrenches your heart in this, gradually tunes your soul to find an anchor, a flicker of Light that is forever guiding you Home. Understand that all of these arrivals and departures, detours and halts are Time's decision to make and we must embrace that with dignity and grace. The essential thing is to keep sailing, by letting go, by simply carrying on with the journey. Halt if you must, but while you halt, don't forget to gaze at how you have grown through each of those very experiences, just as how wonderful the journey gets along the path while you keep passing the ports one after another, steering nearer to the ultimate destination. So wave them a goodbye with a smile of gratitude for helping you in finding a piece of your soul back through a mad jest of pain, to gift you with another step closer to your destination, and sail along the shore of Life with a bunch of smiles.

Early on it is clear that Addie has a rebellious streak, joining the library group and running away to Rockport Lodge. Is Addie right to disobey her parents? Where does she get her courage? 2. Addie’s mother refuses to see Celia’s death as anything but an accident, and Addie comments that “whenever I heard my mother’s version of what happened, I felt sick to my stomach.” Did Celia commit suicide? How might the guilt that Addie feels differ from the guilt her mother feels? 3. When Addie tries on pants for the first time, she feels emotionally as well as physically liberated, and confesses that she would like to go to college (page 108). How does the social significance of clothing and hairstyle differ for Addie, Gussie, and Filomena in the book? 4. Diamant fills her narrative with a number of historical events and figures, from the psychological effects of World War I and the pandemic outbreak of influenza in 1918 to child labor laws to the cultural impact of Betty Friedan. How do real-life people and events affect how we read Addie’s fictional story? 5. Gussie is one of the most forward-thinking characters in the novel; however, despite her law degree she has trouble finding a job as an attorney because “no one would hire a lady lawyer.” What other limitations do Addie and her friends face in the workforce? What limitations do women and minorities face today? 6. After distancing herself from Ernie when he suffers a nervous episode brought on by combat stress, Addie sees a community of war veterans come forward to assist him (page 155). What does the remorse that Addie later feels suggest about the challenges American soldiers face as they reintegrate into society? Do you think soldiers today face similar challenges? 7. Addie notices that the Rockport locals seem related to one another, and the cook Mrs. Morse confides in her sister that, although she is usually suspicious of immigrant boarders, “some of them are nicer than Americans.” How does tolerance of the immigrant population vary between city and town in the novel? For whom might Mrs. Morse reserve the term Americans? 8. Addie is initially drawn to Tessa Thorndike because she is a Boston Brahmin who isn’t afraid to poke fun at her own class on the women’s page of the newspaper. What strengths and weaknesses does Tessa’s character represent for educated women of the time? How does Addie’s description of Tessa bring her reliability into question? 9. Addie’s parents frequently admonish her for being ungrateful, but Addie feels she has earned her freedom to move into a boardinghouse when her parents move to Roxbury, in part because she contributed to the family income (page 185). How does the Baum family’s move to Roxbury show the ways Betty and Addie think differently from their parents about household roles? Why does their father take such offense at Herman Levine’s offer to house the family? 10. The last meaningful conversation between Addie and her mother turns out to be an apology her mother meant for Celia, and for a moment during her mother’s funeral Addie thinks, “She won’t be able to make me feel like there’s something wrong with me anymore.” Does Addie find any closure from her mother’s death? 11. Filomena draws a distinction between love and marriage when she spends time catching up with Addie before her wedding, but Addie disagrees with the assertion that “you only get one great love in a lifetime.” In what ways do the different romantic experiences of each woman inform the ideas each has about love? 12. Filomena and Addie share a deep friendship. Addie tells Ada that “sometimes friends grow apart. . . . But sometimes, it doesn’t matter how far apart you live or how little you talk—it’s still there.” What qualities do you think friends must share in order to have that kind of connection? Discuss your relationship with a best friend. Enhance

refuses to change the event. They believe the sheriff is making up the death threats in an effort to get them to cancel. Evidently, they are either that stupid or just used to death threats. Anyway, the locals are stepping up security in the surrounding buildings. The police presence is already at the maximum the sheriff can deploy. I’ve added the Bureau’s help. A few dog teams have been added at the entry

It is at once shocking and understandable that intelligent people cannot see the correlation between failing to take the time to get clarity, closure, and buy-in during a meeting, and the time required to clean up after themselves as a result.

Last year we had over 21,000 handgun-related deaths in this country. If we take away the suicides and the deaths ruled accidental, that still leaves us with over 19,000 handgun deaths. We have around 65 million handguns in this country, with a death rate of 13.7 per 100,000. That’s three times the rate of Canada. On top of the homicides, this also shows that handguns are used nine out of ten times in robbery, assault and rape.

We have around 65 million handguns in this country, with a death rate of 13.7 per 100,000. That’s three times the rate of Canada. On top of the homicides, this also shows that handguns are used nine out of ten times in robbery, assault and rape. The American people are tired of all these loophole-filled laws,

And everything that had gone wrong—all the blood that now stained her hands—could be traced back to her own hatred and desire for revenge. It had begun with Gerran’s death. Instead of grieving and moving on, she had clung to her sorrow until it transformed into bitter anger that consumed her every waking moment... And it was only now, cowering alone in the corner of a hut in the middle of the desert, that she understood the true price. The dark side destroys. It can’t bring peace or closure; it only brings misery and death. Whatever fate awaited her, whatever consequence or punishment befell her, she would accept it with stoic calm and quiet strength. I am still my father’s daughter.

And everything that had gone wrong - all the blood that now stained her hands - could be traced back to her own hatred and desire for revenge. It had begun with Gerran’s death. Instead of grieving and moving on, she had clung to her sorrow until it transformed into bitter anger that consumed her every waking moment... And it was only now, cowering alone in the corner of a hut in the middle of the desert, that she understood the true price. The dark side destroys. It can’t bring peace or closure; it only brings misery and death... Whatever fate awaited her, whatever consequence or punishment befell her, she would accept it with stoic calm and quiet strength. I am still my father’s daughter.

In death I Woke up from coma amongst stars. I realised, I was trapped in a nightmare of a merciless world. Plunder and torture without care. Closure

And everything that had gone wrong - all the blood that now stained her hands - could be traced back to her own hatred and desire for revenge. It had begun with Gerran’s death. Instead of grieving and moving on, she had clung to her sorrow until it transformed into bitter anger that consumed her every waking moment... And it was only now, cowering alone in the corner of a hut in the middle of the desert, that she understood the true price. The dark side destroys. It can’t bring peace or closure; it only brings misery and death. Whatever fate awaited her, whatever consequence or punishment befell her, she would accept it with stoic calm and quiet strength. I am still my father’s daughter.

Maybe Life and Death seems so contrary to us because of the way we have comprehended life for all these times. And maybe, just maybe, they are one and the same thing. We have indeed made possession an indispensable part of our lives, the amassment of wealth as an intrinsic part of ourselves. Whereas death confronts us with its finality, dispossessing us from all our accumulations and from what we considered as ourselves. Maybe we can comprehend death by understanding life not as the sole purpose of our existence but as a mere point of our inception. Existence consists of two phenomena in totality; life and death. Life is an event of temporal nature identified by its subjectivity. While death is a phenomenon preordained by the presence of life itself and is recognized by its objective nature providing closure to its preceding event. Both are equally significant to ourselves. Life is not to be considered as a sole precious possession of ours which death puts away. It is not which we possess, it is us, a part of ours just as is death.

Let us remember why we have the death penalty in our legal codes today, and for over 60 offenses. It is not because some wise thinkers or ethicists once gathered together and deliberated, “Well, murder is a serious crime, and thus we need the ultimate penalty of death in our legal code to express society’s outrage over murder, to help victims ‘find closure, to deter wrongdoers,’ and so on.” No, the death statutes are there more as a historical-cultural habit. We have the death penalty today because we are still living out a historical legacy that resorted to officials killing to expropriate the lands of commoners and indigenous peoples, to enforce slavery by lynching practices, to terrorize members of labor unions and others.[186] The death penalty is a feature of the founding and routine violence of the U.S. state.

After talking with your sister, I realized a few things…” You love me? You need me? You can’t live without me? “…I think you need closure, Drew.” Oh no. Not closure. Anything but fucking closure. Closure is a made-up word that women invented so they can overanalyze something and talk about it—to death. And then, after it’s been blessed and buried, closure gives them the excuse to dig the poor fucker up and talk about it—some more. Guys don’t do that. Ever. It’s over. Fade to black. The end. That’s all the goddamn closure we need.

Their parents had been progressive by nature.  They had taken their daughters with them to the Far East on a business trip with the intention of letting the girls see other cultures.  The trip had ended in disaster.  Their parents had been killed by local thieves, somewhere in the suburbs of Shanghai.  The girls had been taken and sold to the Yakuza.  Because their bodies had not been found, and they were not seen after the death of their parents, it was assumed the girls were dead and buried.  That women were still not as important in the culture of their home country had sped the closure of their case. Edith Cromwell spent a lot of sleepless nights that first week wondering about the psyches of the males she worked with each day.  Were they capable of the sort of crimes against women that these poor girls had endured?  The suspicions, the fears that this line of thought provoked could end in alcoholism, drug abuse, even suicide.  Edith decided that she had best just leave it well enough alone.  If not, she would never be able to work with any man ever again.

We can isolate determining points in which the creation of meat recalls the movement of narration. There is a beginning, a postulating of origins that positions the beginning of the story: we give animals life. There is the drama of conflict, in this case, of death. And there is the closure, the final summing up, which provides resolution to the drama: the consumption of the animal.

Kayani had closed American ground supply routes through Pakistan to Afghanistan in retaliation for the deaths of Pakistani soldiers in a violent border incident at Salala late in 2011. The closure of Pakistani routes had forced Central Command and General John Allen to import materials from the north of Afghanistan and by air, at an expense to taxpayers of $100 million more per month compared with the Pakistani option. The impasse had become a politicized, highly public matter of honor, with the Pakistanis demanding an American apology and the Obama administration, still seething over the discovery of Osama Bin Laden at Abbottabad, among other offenses, unwilling to bend.

After a murder comes the grief, a police investigation and hopefully a trial. With sentencing most people imagine a degree of closure but, in reality, that was never the case. People move on. The news cycle moves on, but the family are left with a gaping hole in their lives; every room, every family event, wherever they go there is always a shadow, and it never goes away.

If you find that releasing your grief through art helps you, consider writing or drawing your emotions to your parents. Let them know that you're sad, angry, or confused. If you’re in shock, disbelief, or denial. Doing this can serve as a good emotional outlet, make you feel lighter and give you mental clarity and closure about your parents’ death.

When it comes to closure, I always emphasize that readings aren’t a cure for grief. They validate that consciousness transcends physical death, but aren’t a cure-all to the natural grief process.

In best-case scenarios, the loss of a parent can be anticipated. Perhaps they had a known or chronic illness that slowly deteriorated their health over time. Perhaps their healthcare provider had told you a proposed time limit that your parents had left. Perhaps you’d had discussions with your parents in their last days and had had the opportunity to prepare yourself mentally and emotionally. In cases like these, you’re given the chance to say goodbye and have closure.

Oh, human certainty, knowing that nothing has happened in vain, that nothing was happening in vain, although disappointment seems to be all, and no way leads out of the thicket; oh, certainty, knowing that even when the way turns to evil the knowledge gained by experience has grown, remaining as an increment of knowledge in the world, remaining as the cool-bright reflection of the estate beyond chance to which the earthly action of man can penetrate whenever it conforms to the necessity determined by perception and attains in this way a first illumination of earthbound life and its herdlike sleep. Oh, certainty full of trust, not streaming hither from heaven but arising as on it—, then must not fulfillment of certain trust, if fulfillment be at all possible, be realized here on earth? the necessary is always consummated in the simple way of earth, the streaming round of questions will always find its closure only upon earth, even through the perceptive task may concern itself with uniting the separate spheres of the universe, still there is no genuine task without earthly roots, none possible of solution without an earthly starting point.

We celebrated people after they were gone in a manner designed to bring closure to those left behind. But closure was not what was needed when it comes to death and dying; openness was.

There was no social ritual to indicate that I had undergone a major life event. No forty days of rest as after childbirth, no forty days of mourning after death. There was no symbolic act of closure. Like the divorce, the absence of closure would be a unique cross for me to bear.

What if one day the kids ask about the trees and want to grow them on their father’s behalf? What if they ask for artifacts of their father’s dying and death and I have to tell them I threw them all away? What if, instead of the closure they never received through their father’s passing, they find it in his copy of Rear Window or The Birds? That would have been me, I think. Collaging together all the clues. Who was my dad if not for the tangible items he left behind? Why else would he have purchased so many seemingly random items only to leave them unopened? Unwrapped? Perhaps these were his last words to his children.

But we do not do this task of rebuilding our life narratives alone. In the wilderness of grief, God provides narrative manna--just enough shape and meaning to keep us walking--and sends the Comforter, who knits together the raveled sould and refuses to leave us orphaned. Sometimes the bereaved say they are looking for closure, but in the Christian faith we do not see closure so much as we pray that all of our lost loves will be gathered into that great unending story fashioned by God's grace.

That’s the hope, isn’t it? To see your family in your time of dying.

the meaning of Christmas is that God is invading the territory held by the Prince of Darkness. The definitive closure of this cosmic invasion, the V-Day to its D-Day, will be the final Day of God. 190 On that last day there will be only one Ruler, only one Lord. Scripture is quite clear and unambiguous about that. The Judge of all the cosmos will not be Satan. Radical evil will have no status in the day of judgment, or the day of final reconciliation, as Volf calls it. 191 “Death shall have no more dominion” (cf. Rom. 6: 9). If evil is the absence of good, then the victory of our Lord and of his Christ will be the absence of evil, “for ever and ever.

So, doing nothing, he simply remained on the alert, careful to preserve his failing memory against the decay that consumed everything around him, much as he had done from the moment that he — once the closing of the estate had been announced and he personally had decided to stay behind and survive on what remained until “the decision to reverse the closure should be taken” — had gone up to the mill with the elder Horgos girl to observe the terrible racket of the abandonment of the place, with everyone rushing round and shouting, the trucks in the distance like refugees fleeing the scene, when it seemed to him that the mill’s death-sentence had brought the whole estate to a condition of near collapse, and from that day on he felt too weak to halt by himself the triumphal progress of the wrecking process, however he might try, there being nothing he could do in the face of the power that ruined houses, walls, trees and fields, the birds that dived from their high stations, the beasts that scurried forth, and all human bodies, desires and hopes, knowing he wouldn’t, in any case, have the strength, however he tried, to resist this treacherous assault on humanity; and, knowing this, he understood, just in time, that the best he could do was to use his memory to fend off the sinister, underhanded process of decay, trusting in the fact that since all that mason might build, carpenter might construct, woman might stitch, indeed all that men and women had brought forth with bitter tears was bound to turn to an undifferentiated, runny, underground, mysteriously ordained mush, his memory would remain lively and clear, right until his organs surrendered and “conformed to the contract whereby their business affairs were wound up,” that is to say until his bones and flesh fell prey to the vultures hovering over death and decay.

I strive to encourage people to live their lives in such a way that they’ll never need help from someone like me. When we live each day with kindness, compassion, and communicative love, there is no business left unfinished. There are no regrets or words we should have said, but didn’t. There is no need for closure or forgiveness or apology of any kind. A life well lived is not harmed by death.

Ah, closure. I know what John means, and yet I’ve always thought that “closure” was an illusion of sorts. Many people don’t know that Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s familiar stages of grieving—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance—were conceived in the context of terminally ill patients learning to accept their own deaths. It wasn’t until decades later that the model came to be used for the grieving process more generally. It’s one thing to “accept” the end of your own life, as Julie is struggling to do. But for those who keep on living, the idea that they should be getting to acceptance might make them feel worse (“I should be past this by now”; “I don’t know why I still cry at random times all these years later”). Besides, how can there be an endpoint to love and loss? Do we even want there to be? The price of loving so deeply is feeling so deeply—but it’s also a gift, the gift of being alive. If we no longer feel, we should be grieving our own deaths.

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The excess coronavirus deaths in rural counties should be classified as suicides by scientific skepticism. By rejecting proven vaccines, conspiracy-addled rural Americans, though living in communities where social distancing was easier than in densely populated cities, squandered their geographic advantage. All told, premature deaths from reduced healthcare access and facility closures, healthcare ignorance and scientific skepticism, and a fatal devotion to guns and drugs are killing rural white Americans—especially downscale rural whites.

The whispers of the dead echo through time, seeking justice and closure.