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“No matter how insignificant or tiny one is, in the Gorean belief, one is an ineradicable part of history. That can never be taken from anyone.”

(Dancer of Gor, p.426) 

She died a few days ago, released from her mortal form and on her journey to the Cities of Dust. She had succumbed to a harrowing disease, one of the few that the Physicians had still not been able to find a cure. Like a despised thief, the disease stole her mind, leaving her a mere shell of the woman she had once been. In her end days, it was difficult to look upon her withered visage, to see her so frail. Tears would well in my eyes, sorrow over how this horrendous disease had destroyed this poor woman. She should have had more time on this world, more years to enjoy, to watch her extended family grow.  

When I was but a child, I lived in a small town, on the third floor of a building atop a hill. And at the base of the hill, and a bit to the right, lived my grandmother. We were a close family during those times, so many pleasant memories. And it is those memories that will live on, which will obtain a measure of immortality. Even the Serums cannot guarantee a longer life. And even when I outgrew that town, and moved forward with my life, the connections remained. And more memories were acquired, more times of happiness, and sorrow, of celebration and grief. No life is perfect but we treasure all of the memories nonetheless.  

Disease claimed my grandfather as well, nearly a decade ago. Strangely enough it was another disease that the Physicians could not cure, another thief that stole so much from him. This disease claimed his body, eating away at the inside, leaving him withered and frail. A bizarre synchronicity that both should be claimed by such thieves, one stealing the body, the other the mind. And of course this caused some consternation amidst the survivors, worries that the disease could claim other victims within the family.  

This death essentially eliminated a generation, the last survivor among that level of family. Now, only three generations existed, myself standing in the middle, within that second generation. Inevitably, time would claim the third generation while creating a new one as well. Nature is cyclic, a continual circle of birth and death, the passing of one generation and the creation of another. This knowledge still did not make the reality of death easy to accept. The pain of loss still stung, the tears still fell, the need for closeness to others still existed.  

It would be a simple ceremony, a time of few words. Memory and silence would be the primary guests at that ceremony. For how can one express the totality of a life within a ten-minute speech? How can one even scratch the surface in that limited time? No, it is impossible to do, and demeans the memory of the life that has passed on. Such a ceremony is a time to wish the departed well on their journey to the Cities of Dust. Afterwards, there will be sufficient time to share the memories of her life. It will then be time to talk, to share stories and recollections of the past. To smile, to laugh, to remember.  

She will live on within my heart, with others who have preceded her on that final trek. And there will remain room for others who will follow her one-day. And each time that I share my memories of her, I will help to extend her life. For as long as someone remembers her, she will still live on. It costs nothing to share my memories. It only takes a little time and effort. And that is a small price to pay for immortality. And by sharing with others, I help to solidify my own recollections of her, not allowing my memories to fade. Anyone who incurs such a loss should do the same, should share the memories.  

Let me tell you about my grandmother….

                        

 

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