Death

It's been occupying my thoughts recently. Pop, my paternal grandfather, died this winter, and in greiving for him I found myself crying for the finality of his death, for never being able to hear his voice again, making one of his signature wry comments. At other moments the tears were all about my own fears, about being overwhelmed by just how temporary this life is, and trebbling at the thought that someday I might be burying not a grandparent, but a parent. But yesterday and today as the Virginia Tech tradgedy unfurls, and every time I read news of another young American soldier being killed, I recall my maternal grandfather, a German-Jew who escaped Nazi Germany and whose brother died when he was just a child, mentioning to me that the worst imaginable thing in the world would be to bury one of your own children. I feel compelled, but don't know how, to honor these young victims and acknowledge the grief their families must be suffering.