Mourning + a poem

The week started with the news that a high school acquaintance, a person who was very good friends with friends of mine, had died. It was the accidental death of a young man, just 35, a brilliant scientist and delightful person, as many have attested. I cannot claim to have been in touch with him over the years, and yet, I feel that if I were to have seen him at a holiday party in Minnesota next week, we could have easily visited and I would have enjoyed time spent in conversation. He was affable and warm and obviously gifted.

As one of his Facebook friends, I went first to Huan's wall to see if there was any news. There was a post there, left by one of his friends, from the previous week. In response to that friend's query about holiday plans, Huan had listed his travel dates to Minnesota but noted that he first had to go to the mountains that weekend to work. His work site there was a massive telescope that he had helped to construct (a detail I discovered when reading his blog about the project. Since that blog was not private, I feel okay about posting the link here.) It was a casual comment noting one last commitment before vacation could begin. However, it was at work that weekend - last weekend - that he died. He went and did not come back. Huan's words noting the purchased tickets and excitement about Christmas gripped me.

Our time here is often so short, unfairly short for many, and sometimes I obsess about the knowing of death, the counting of the grains of sand, the deciphering of the time of departure. It is one of my macabre fascinations to wonder about the day of a person's death when I read of accidents or murders in the newspaper: does this person realize that there are only 10 or 18 or 22 or 3 hours left on this planet? I don't know how to answer my insistent question. Probably not, unless terminal illness is involved. Is there a premonition? I do not know.

Obviously, the question I'm really asking (in the manner of "Spring and Fall" by Gerard Manley Hopkins, a poem I posted earlier this year) is this: Will I know?

This man's friends have rallied on Facebook, posting pictures, memories and fond wishes. I am marveling at the site's utility for just this sort of purpose. Even as nothing more than a friendly high school acquaintance, I have been touched by the messages left for him.

Here is something that came to me, a remembered Emily Dickinson verse, full of her characteristic dashes. It is simple, as her poetry often is, and gets right to it.

All but Death, can be Adjusted
by Emily Dickinson

All but Death, can be Adjusted --
Dynasties repaired --
Systems -- settled in their Sockets --
Citadels -- dissolved --
Wastes of Lives -- resown with Colors By Succeeding Springs --
Death -- unto itself --
Exception -- Is exempt from Change --



And there you have it. There's the rub.