Death Notices
Sept 7 2014


The obituary page invites me
to celebrate lives,
join in remembering,
give to a worthy cause.

The deceased are often pictured
in the prime of life,
women, posed like starlets
strong and dashing men.
So even a "good" death
of people I've never met

is unexpectedly affecting.

And the litany of descendants
branching, spreading
down to a fourth generation, at best;
mourners far too young
to yet make sense of death.

I notice it's the relationships
that come first.
The jobs and titles and honours
are mostly postscript,
in the end, matter less.
So did he, too
think he was indispensable,
regret
so much time spent at work?

How tragic I feel
when they die young;
or at least, younger than me.
Cold dread
at life's randomness,
which has never, in truth, been fair.
And each year, my own mortality
getting less and less
hypothetical.

Because death notices

is also a verb,

and I can see the grim reaper

turning my way.

The newspaper
lives for only a day;
then, like all old news
the obits get tossed.
Lives rudely ended,
and now
their final moment gone;
fading portraits, on yellowing paper
face-down in the dark.

While the living go on
to view the newest dearly departed
on a freshly printed page.
An endless parade, passing before us
of accomplishment, suffering
love.

It is consoling to believe
the circle of life goes on,
that our passing bequeaths
its own inscrutable meaning.
But sobering, to think
that a brief note
in a daily paper
is likely our last hurrah.
That despite the best of intentions
memory soon expires
as busy lives press on.


There is something poignant about an obituary in the daily paper. And metaphorical, as well. Because a daily paper is so transient and disposable: it becomes old and useless with tomorrow's fresh one; and in short order, the very newsprint self-destructs. So there is almost a feeling of obligation: that I have to stop and read each entry, honour each life. Because that is it -- the last hurrah, and now the rest of us will all move on with the urgency and busyness of daily life. The most accomplished life ends this way: a small entry, in a daily paper; and after it's tossed, who knows what tiny fragment of memory will remain.

With my philosophical tendency toward nihilism, I have an especially hard struggle with the meaningfulness of a life. So seeing this parade of lives, all these final acts of remembrance, balled-up and tossed in the trash (symbolically, anyway, since I now read on an iPad!), my feeling of insignificance is reinforced. The last hurrah. Now ended, as if it never was.

I find that as I've aged, I've gone from flipping past the obits, to a quick glance, and now a more studied reading. I look for familiar names. I notice, soberingly, how more and more were born after me. And when they've died at a ripe old age, I find arresting the pictures of vivacious women and strong men, taken in the prime of life. After all, I'm sure this is how they pictured themselves, no matter how the rest of us saw them. And I like to think that their grandchildren will do a double-take, never having imagined that old person as anything else: the women, in their vintage hairdos; the men in uniform, or formal dress, or as weekend warriors, in fishing vests and favourite hats.

When a person dies old, and in their time, it seems less tragic. The call to mourn by celebrating a life makes sense. But when they die young, I see the hopeful picture of a young woman or man, and feel the cruel weight of death.

(Actually, the final episode of that great HBO series Six Feet Under was the most powerful thing I've ever seen or read in evoking this deeply affecting sense of poignancy. The hopefulness of the young adult setting off alone on a cross-country drive to a new uncertain life, inter-cut with all the characters in their final moments -- people we've come to know so well, so suddenly and convincingly aged, in some vaguely familiar future -- was utterly unforgettable. Please don't try to tell me that television is all low culture, or a waste of time. Admittedly, most is. But something like this is high art; perhaps even more noteworthy because of its technical complexity and collaborative nature. To produce art by committee, and where so much can go wrong, is especially impressive to a simple poet: who works alone, and only requires a pencil and a flat surface. Or as little as a good memory and some free time!)

The original title was Old News. I like “News” being pulled back to its original intent, and so the inherent tension in the phrase. On the other hand, it’s not really that original. So I considered alternate titles, and the obvious was to be completely straight – no misdirection, no cleverness, no lifting of a favourite line – and go with the simple Obits or Obituary. Any other word for it …?, I wondered. Death Notices, of course. I like how a little tweak in the language centre of my brain converts a heading into a sentence, complete with its proper noun and unornamented verb. And how those two words suddenly take on a different and very sinister quality.