People, I grew up with, have begun to die. Sometimes the deaths are shockingly unexpected. In my own little domestic bubble, we have both lost family and friends who were deeply and truly loved. Our parents and grandparents have made their departures and I have one less brother than I used to have, while my sisters each have one less child than they used to have.
Death is often a sad occasion. People we love or people we hoped to love are gone forever. There is no escaping the finality of it. I recall very clearly being disappointed, after my mother died, that she would never know the conclusion of an ongoing sub-plot in my life. It was a professional drama with many twists and turns, a humorous production in several acts, that I played out for her every day. She laughed at my outraged tenacity, sure I would prevail from sheer determination; I did. At the time I thought, “Oh Mumma, you don’t know how it ended.”
There is something in death. It may be limbic resonance from the residual energy of the dead or it could be the coping mechanism of an advanced organism overwhelmed by grief. There are occurrences in death’s wake that encourage belief in an afterlife. I can’t say that they are coincidence nor can I say they are not.
I do not believe in a deity that oversees us all, rewarding or punishing our behavior. Belief in a supreme being is likely human’s naive wish for order in a chaotic world and reassurance that the self goes on.