As I sat despondently on a pub bench, half drowning in cigarette smoke and half floating on the undertone of undulating conversation, I paused – looking for a moment of silence in which to intercede – “life isn’t fair,” I maundered.
My compadres nodded in agreement; though none could bring themselves to broach the subject.
This was an after-funeral drinking session, you see.
Everybody already knew that the world was horribly unjust.
Loss permeated the very essence of the place; and suddenly whiskey smelt like a humid Tuesday night, alone at home on a tattered couch, reminiscing about lost love and love lost and all of the harlots and dastards in-between, while some washed-down comedy mantra plays repetitively in the background.
“I’m just saying, life’s not fair,”
I stuttered. Even less recognition this time, but how does one console a friend on the loss of a loved one if not through awkward conversation and alcohol?
This wasn’t my first encounter with loss, you see.
Loss was no stranger to me. I knew that fumbled words of kindness and inaudible utterances of sympathy wouldn’t heal the wound; but that simultaneously they were the only gifts one could lay down at the feet of a grieving companion.
I once came across a funeral brochure lying in a murky gutter.
I don’t know who left it there. By the time I had come across it, the elements had already had their way with it; largely leaving behind a pile of mulch and ink.
I tilted my head to the side.
I could make out part of what I could only assume was a narrative written by a lamenting family member –
“Grief is just love with no place to go.”
Soppy.
Terribly soppy.
I’ve never been a fan of the mawkish.
I am not a maudlin person; and yet it stayed with me. Even on that pub bench.
Even now.
Perhaps what the world needs is to realise that we are all broken from the inside, not by loss, but by the innate desire to give away all of the love we have within us. And isn’t that a more beautiful thought than
“life’s not fair”?
Anxiously yours,
Aimee
