The Funeral Song
Revisiting lessons on grief fifteen years later
“Life leaks away,” wrote W.H. Auden in the final moments before WWII. And that it does, I think today in 2025, in the final moments before whatever comes next.
My Mom died 15 years ago today, a number that feels as large as it is unlikely, almost one third of my entire life. Grief, as I’ve come to learn, is a living, breathing, aggregating process—each new loss a journey back through every loss that came before it.
Not long ago I thought I had a grasp on my grief, so much so that I wrote a wisdom listicle on the topic for the 10th anniversary. Here’s what I wrote.
~~~~~~
I lost my Mom ten years ago today. The phone call woke me from a Sunday afternoon nap, and the moment I heard my Dad’s voice I knew nothing would ever be the same.
And it hasn’t been.
I remember standing up and saying to Ashley, “That’s it. She’s gone. Dead.” I remember the silence. How calm I felt. I walked around the house gathering random objects and articles of clothing into a suitcase. I never thought for a moment to book a flight. We packed the car, bulldog and all, and drove 1,300 miles from Denver to Cleveland. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I’m not sure I even said a word.
I’ve learned so many lessons over the past ten years. About myself, about grief, about how to live a better life. Here’s the list of my favorite ten.
Grief never ends. It evolves and dissipates, compounds then disappears, wakes you from deep sleep but sometimes knocks you out. It surprises you, too, but definitely does not go away.
Friends. They change, too. Or rather, your understanding of who they are changes.You learn a lot about people when you’re at your lowest point. Look back five years after a loss this big and you might notice that your life has completely changed.
Embrace the stranger. There’s comfort to be found in the unknown. In the first days after my Mom died, I heard more from people I barely knew than those who knew me best. You’ll find yourself bonding over common loss, or offering solace to someone you barely know. That’s the “club.”
And the “club” is real. The motherless and the fatherless, we’re all in this together. You learn that immediately, and it’s fucking magical.
It gets dark. Really, really dark. You’ll be angry for a long time, and it’ll come back in spurts when you least expect it. But appreciate the darkness. Run towards it and not away. If you hide, it will chase and haunt you. It’s faster than you.
There’s truth in that darkness. About you and those you love, about the life you’re leading and the time you have left to dive headfirst into every moment.
Change everything. Or at least some things. Move, rediscover an old passion, find a different one, get a new job, change careers entirely. Have a baby. Or do all of those things. That worked, too.
Be sad. Own it. Melancholy is ok if it doesn’t paralyze you. Listen to sad songs, watch depressing movies, read books about human pain. It reminds you that you’re not alone, and you might even find that it makes you oddly optimistic in the end.
Because the truth is, loss can either paralyze or revitalize. You choose. Remember, if you run from it, you’ll never beat it.
Loss is a gift. If you see it that way. If you don’t let it define you. If you listen to it as a reminder that every single thing is fleeting, you might just find that your life has never been better than after unthinkable loss.
At least that’s what happened to me.
~~~~~~
Everything has changed in the five years since I wrote that essay: in the world, at home, and within myself. I’ve grieved freedom and Democracy, purpose and identity, relationships and family, the Earth and whatever will be left of it as my son grows older in a broken world. And I can say, without question, that I’ve never known less about grief, how to tolerate it, or what to do with it.
That’s not to say I’ve learned nothing, or haven’t gathered coping tools. I have, and do my best to apply them every day. There’s a lot more to process these days, with so much to mourn and so much more beyond that in turmoil—from cities on fire and the legislative reversals of basic rights for women and queer communities to mass deportations and cultural genocides. It’s too much, and likely to get a whole lot worse over the next several years.
And yet, when I revisit that list I wrote five years and several lifetimes ago, I wouldn’t change a thing. It’s all still true, and perhaps even more so than ever. Grief doesn’t end, and sometimes gets worse, more confusing, harder to process. Friends come and go, often change or move away from you, and that requires more from us: to embrace the unknown, accept a stranger’s kindness, step further out of our comfort zones and discover new experiences. And the older we get, the larger the club grows, requiring each of us to be that stranger who shares a knowing glance or a comforting word. And yes, it gets darker than you can imagine, sometimes so dark you don’t think you’ll ever recover, but we’re often rewarded with truth and personal authenticity at the other end of rock bottom. It’s not just okay to be sad, it’s vital, as every catharsis is, in the end, a reminder that we’re still processing, still growing, still capable of un-numbing ourselves. Because loss can either paralyze or revitalize us, but loss is also a gift that reminds us to live our best lives, to keep on keeping on, to never take for granted the people and experiences that are more fleeting than ever.
Life does leak away, time moves too fast, and though grief is inevitable, suffering is not.
~~~~~~
If these bare walls could sing
They would sing us a funeral song
Push their wooden words into your mouth
They would not wish to be
A burden to your tongue
Would not wish to carry on
Too long
With no sorrow
Ask no greater pardon
Than the pattern
Time is carving in your skin
If these pale bones could sway
They would march to a funeral song
And pull their milky way across the yard
They would not wish to keep
You tethered to their arms
They would not wish to carry on too far
With no sorrow
Ask no greater pardon
Than the pattern
Time is carving in your skin
Well if I could stretch my ears
Into a grand procession
And circle round your wisdom
Like a song
I would not wish to be
The fire in your belly
I would not wish for
Holding you too long
With no sorrow
Ask no greater pardon
Than the pattern
Time is carving in your skin
~~~~~~~
Follow me on Substack: https://thefogandthefury.substack.com/
