They say that we are not truly dead until we are forgotten, until our names stop falling from the lips of the people who survive us and the thoughts of those left after don’t turn to us any longer. This seems a hollow promise to me, for to my eye the dead are dead and stay there, and no manner of remembering can bring them back to us, but I still remember anyway, because the remembering, I think, is for the living, not the dead.
They also say that some deaths are more noble than others, some selfish and others simply tragic, but I don’t hold with this either. I don’t think that one death is inherently better than any other, than some deaths revolve around selfishness while others are examples of sacrifice. Death is death, and it is a thief, and it is evil, and all deaths are tragedies. When depression walks hand in hand with death to strike at someone, this isn’t evidence of weakness or selfishness or even evil, but simply proof that death is a cruel fellow, with heartless drive and no mercy.
Thus I remember the dead, too, in defiance of death, especially since I have seen depression and death trying to nudge open my front door, sit at my table, play cards on my couch, waiting, patiently, for me to teeter and fall. I am not alive because I am any better than anyone else. I am alive because death hasn’t managed to come for me yet, and until he does, I’ll thumb my nose at him when I can and honour his victims, too.
Death may steal some things from us, but he cannot have it all.
Today I remember Adrian, for he is no longer alive to remember himself.