We will all die. I became aware of this reality 18 months ago when my father passed away as a result of a perilous 13-hour surgery to counteract the repercussions of his first bout of cancer five years prior.

The first year after his death was a numbing blur as my mother and I received condolences, flowers and food from friends and family. After a year of us overworking, oversleeping (and of me overdrinking) – of living half-lives to offset questions that could not be answered – it seemed like our incessant reality had concluded to the outside world; one year, it appears, is the magic number that many people think will make everything all better again.

What I have become aware of is that death is an enigma that represents the indefinable, the unknowable and is therefore a taboo subject that several people try to control and keep understood through definitions and allotted times for mourning. I, at one point in my life, may have believed this unrealistic belief system of “getting over it” as well.

But living with sporadic breakdowns over my dad’s physical absence catches my mother and I off guard in waves; the smallest memory can set us off when we least expect it.

We have many people who have remained in our life who continue to be there for us in our moments of weakness.

Unfortunately, there are many who have disappeared.

Earlier this summer, it was my mother’s birthday and a group of friends and family met at Cabanna Sams in Sunset Bay, Silver Creek (our favorite summertime getaway) to share drinks, fish fries and laughs. Mark (my boyfriend) had just gotten back from a month tour down the East coast with his band Endive so he decided to join in the festivities.

In the midst of our conversations my mother said to the group (but mostly to herself) while watching the fading sun, “I wish that I could have come here with your father. We were always so busy – always had things to do – when he was alive. Now, I wish that we could have just relaxed and enjoyed more time together.”

The group became quiet, but we were all there for her.

After a few drinks in the restaurant’s famous coconut monkeys, Mark and I decided to leave so that my mother could enjoy the rest of the night. When I hugged her goodbye, she smiled; I could tell instantly that it was one of her rare sincere smiles since dad’s death. The sadness was still there beneath her brown eyes, but she was strong, beautiful and enjoying a good time with loved ones.

Death makes these moments few and far between.

Before leaving, Mark and I went into the parking lot and sat on the hood of my car to watch the last few minutes before the sun set.

As the two of us watched the fat red sun go out like a candle in the glass-like lake, I thought about my childhood when mom, dad and I would spend summer days working around the house.

After the three of us worked in the gardens and ate supper, we would sit on our front lawn to watch the sunset over our neighbor’s treetops. Watching the peach and mauve sky blend into the rippling black horizon, soon to be sprinkled with gold stars, I held both their hands – our silent “I love you.”

When Mark and I drove out of the bay, I thought about other evenings when the three of us would drive to Frosty Treat in Silver Creek and then through Sunset Bay so that they could reminisce about their early 20s as newlyweds living in a small cottage near the water.

These memories hit me in another wave the following Saturday morning; Mark was there.

Several people believe that my mother and I should be “getting over” my father’s death – that we should even seek counseling to forget or block a lifetime of memories: his balding salt and pepper hair, the way he would start crying out of laughter during “tickle wars” or when he would sit in the living room playing his guitar while singing songs by the Beatles before bed.

But these memories will never willingly be erased from either of our memories; no matter how uncomfortable others feel about our moments of weakness, it is still our reality. Another thing I have learned about death is that it scares many people away. But it illuminates true loved ones.

With any sunset I watch, I cannot help but think that eventually we will all die. I do not know what happens next, nor do I wish to guess. What I do know is that the aim is not to try and live forever; rather, to create something that will. What my father created before he died is something invisible to most people: love.

Originally published Sunday, August 10, 2008