Death Is Hard Work

I looked around my mother’s apartment and down into the box, swallowing the lump in my throat and holding back tears ready to race down my cheeks — because they weren’t just things. They were him. They were my father. They were pieces of his life.

Hair holds memory, but so do inanimate objects. That’s why we hold onto heirlooms, keep photos, make qu

Je les connaissais, ces carnets. Ton père me les avait montrés quand il avait commencé. Il voulait se souvenir de chacune de ces personnes, de leur âge, de leur maladie, de l’heure de leur mort. Il en était en partie responsable. Ces carnets, c’étaient ses archives intimes, pas secrètes, mais intimes. Il m’avait expliqué qu’en aidant ces gens à mou

it seemed lazy – unkind, even – to let her lie here in this icy stillness. I wanted her to have the dancing light and the whisper of the flames to keep her company … But what fool would heat a room with a corpse in it? And I could imagine de Havilland’s face when he saw me climbing the stairs with a basket of logs. I turned away. There was no point

He comes to the realization that unless we come to terms with the dead we simply cannot live, and that our life is dependent on finding answers to their unanswered questions.