By C C Pung
Justice of Peace
On this day (Dec 26, 3024) when long time journalist friend Elphege Godomon was laid to rest, I’m once again reminded of the fragility and the brevity of life.
Elphege was just 53.
I knew his father, Patrick, too.
Looking at footage of his funeral service shared by mutual friends, I had flashbacks of funerals I went to, starting with that of an elder brother of mine who passed a number of years ago.
I have been staying away from funerals for a while now because, increasingly, they are like imaginary heartless brutal punches thundering in my chest, jeering at my helplessness, my surrender to the paradox of life and the inevitability of death.
At an age where I’m becoming more aware of my own mortality, the passing of friends and family pinch a little piece of me.
It’s no longer an event I could ‘philosophise’ away. When dear friends Bernice and Paul died of cancer, I told them they were in a better place without needles, chemotherapy and pain, and I felt peace. Unlike then, the sense of loss now lingers.
Humanity talks big and postures itself as being in control.
I’ve at different stages of my life thought, acted like a prick.
I see clearly and savagely that the wreaths, no matter how many or few; the coffin no matter the value, the grave no matter where, are meaningless.
Fact is, the sizes of the coffin and grave are the same no matter your status, titles and bank account.
A wise man once said that the two dates (date of birth and date of death) on your tomb stone have not as much relevance than the dash between them.
The dash is the space where you were to do good when alive and, supposedly, in control.
Rest in peace, Elphege.
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