Snapshots of the dead

Drifting out of my bedroom on Saturday morning, with barely four hours of uninterrupted sleep (way too little to make up for the late night out and too many disturbed sleep cycles), and already late for work, my rather excited mum greeted my disoriented state with news of the dead.

Excited Mum: "It's his grandmother! I'm very sure! The obituary came out on Wednesday and there's even a prominent write-up in today's papers! You see!"

Sleepy Daughter: "Uh huh." (Wondering, instead, if I should bring my blades to office for an evening workout at the beach, that is, if my body does not do an emergency shutdown.)

(PS: Which it did. So I crawled home to collapse on my bed. Heh.)

I did not think she would have remembered things I had only told her in passing, many years ago. Although she never met his grandmother, the uncommon surname in the obituary was the first giveaway, and she recognised the names of his parents and sister. She also remembered that his grandmother used to be a school principal.

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Do you ever wonder how some people seem so much larger in death than in life? And yet, lesser of a person - a real person. When a person dies, does she leave behind only shiny deeds that are worth remembering? But surely, behind the public face, even extraordinary people lived other lives too, and made a difference to the lives of family, friends and even strangers. Perhaps, she was also the doting mother whose love for her favourite son made her say harsh words to the daughter-in-law, which seemed incongruent with her spirited campaigns for women's rights. And maybe somewhere in the less pleasant recesses of a grown man's childhood memories, a grandmother berated her grandson in front of the party guests for unwrapping his birthday presents in their presence.

Would a person's passing be any less significant if her life (or other lives) were not as exemplary, or just ordinary - to the rest of the world?

In the twilight years of the really old ones, there can be too little else to remember and cherish. Even the most fearsome of dowagers can become a wasted wraith whose bones felt so fragile under her thin leathery skin that you feared breaking her arm if you held her a little too hard, just so she would not fall and break her leg otherwise (good thing I rarely got to meet her); or who turned to her son or the ex-communicated every ten minutes with a toothy grin and asked: "Who are you?" to their occasional irritation, but mostly, resigned bemusement tinged with sadness.

Do surviving family and friends hold on tenaciously to the better memories of the dead because sadness can be too hard to bear? Or do they find it hard to remember the dead, if not for the happier memories?

I wonder who - really - misses her most.

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In your snapshot upon death, how would you like to be remembered?