Mourning

A good friend just emailed. His father passed on. I never met his father, but I knew plenty about him. My friend, a fabulous storyteller, showered me and others with stories about him, some faithful to the experienced past and others influenced by the self-fabulating ability of memory. In his act of telling, both love and passion were evident, love and passion not only for the labor of telling stories, but also for the subject matter. I trust that my friend will continue to (re)create wonderful, whimsical fables about his beloved father. And I hope that continues to happen not just after mourning, but during. Mourning. How does one begin to mourn one's parent? Unfathomable. Terrifying. But the process of mourning must, I imagine, offer some deeply needed respite from the pain of mourning itself. Mourning. Alone in deep solitude. But also in company. In community.