Down the damn road

This morning I got to know that something which for a reason I cannot fathom out, caught my attention while I was idly browsing the Announcements section of timesofmalta.com. It was an obituary about a 25 year old, who, as the type said, had a son and a fiancee, parents, a grandmother, and lots of other siblings all with fiancees. It looked so strange that I kept looking and refreshing the page because I somehow sensed that something was extremely wrong. A 25 year old with a small child and fiancee suddenly dead? Why? And it was no accident otherwise it would have been in the news. And for another reason which I cannot work out, I kept thinking about it all day. I felt so sorry for his fiancee`, for his parents. It looked so odd, because someone who has just had a baby cannot suddenly turn psychically sick. And I thought to myself, poor fiancee`, God knows how many plans she must have had, only to end up listed in a newspaper obituary. Now I know. And I'm creeped out by the way it hit me full force. Maybe we who have gone down that road instantly recognise each other even just through a newspaper obituary. I don't know how, maybe my heart just knew, like a magnet of some sort. And now I feel even more sorry for the survivors who have, without a choice, been thrown onto that hellish road of trying to put the pieces together. And they never will put any of the pieces next to another, because it's that road which has stop signs marked 'Agony', no entry signs marked 'Anguish', pot holes filled with fear and pain, and a zebra crossing which is indefinitely on the amber light which says 'Never the same again'. I feel so bad, I wish I could take just a little of their pain away, because now, 8 years later I think I could endure it. And I hated all the speculations of the people. Go away people, you don't know what you're talking about. Do not keep chit-chatting trying to find a plausible reason. Because there might be a reason, but it will not be plausible. They will never understand. I could sit here and write volumes about the whys and hows, because now I have a precious thing called hindsight. But don't bank on sympathy, or empathy. They will never understand why you go back to work knocked up badly after the funeral. They will think you're faking something. They would understand if you'd broken a leg, but they don't understand when you've broken all the bones in your system. They force you to keep going. And it's so very cruel I know. If ever I am in a position to understand, I will understand. Because only us who have been left alone and cold in the damning aftermath will ever understand what it's all about. I just pray that one day, although in the very distant future, they might at least put their heart to rest. And perhaps smile a little like I have.