There is a crucial difference between some books we read and life. One that makes me angry, makes me sad. Not because those books misrepresent reality, but because I wish life were more as in those books. I’m talking about those books whose benign writers made sure all plots and subplots closed and made sense, leaving our protagonists with closure and the promise of new stories to come. Not those that leave us with unfinished stories…

I had some very heartbreaking news this week. My cousin and her husband passed away in a horrible traffic accident. It was raining, there was speed, there was a truck, there were mistakes, and then they were gone. She went first, instantly. One moment she was there, the next she was gone. That she didn’t suffer, I am grateful for. He lived longer, going so far to the hospital and to live two more impossibly long and painful days, but then he too, was gone.

They were both so young and full of life, with children and families that are now grieving, with so many stories to live that will now remain unfinished. There are no more promises of stories to come, just pain and confusion about how fast they were ripped from their lives.

In moments like this, I wish life were like those books. That after all the pain and suffering, our protagonists could come to safe port and be able to laugh about their adventures and look at the future with promise.

But life is not like those books.

I can only hope that wherever they have gone, be that heaven or nirvana, they can finish their stories, as they lived their life, together.

 

 

 

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