There are many ways to discuss death, to process, and show it. Many ways to explain how it makes us feel, and yet, it’s still difficult. Is this more so due to the inherent foreignness of death, an inevitability that our minds, despite generations of evolution, are still too unsophisticated to fully comprehend? Or potentially more a result of its biting ability to impact each of us differently, often evoking different reactions, at different times, with different people?
As I’ve debated these questions within my own mind and with others, I’ve realized that despite the initial destruction it brings, it also has an ironic way of simultaneously showing us beauty. For every struggle, every fall, every mistake, more of life is revealed. And it is in this revelation that I find the most meaning, and the most purpose for our shared existence.
As Boris Pasternak wrote in Doctor Zhivago, “I don't like people who have never fallen or stumbled. Their virtue is lifeless and of little value. Life hasn't revealed its beauty to them.” Though Tom was much too familiar with struggle, his death fully revealed the beauty to me in what initially began as a professional relationship, and later blossomed into a friendship.
And for that, I am grateful.