Tag Archives: death

Each Day Anew…

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I wake and start each day anew
I shake myself to clear my head
I take on faith I’ll muddle through
I make myself get out of bed

The day is as it was before
The play of life’s dramas unfold
The clay of my face gets new scores
The way it will for days untold

Time flaunts with me in its cruel way
Time wants me to think I’m all right
Time daunts my tears in light of day
Time haunts me then in dark of night

Can’t lie my pain will soon be through
Can’t fly away until it’s gone
Can’t buy back moments to redo
Can’t die so no choice but go on

It’s true that heartache ends, but when?
It’s few the days I feel it cease
It’s due I know, but until then
It’s through my pen I find release

I know I have the strength to cope
I go as heart and soul say to
I sow my seeds of faith and hope
I grow and start each day anew

====<>====

[written several very short, yet long years ago – about six weeks after becoming a widow.]

The form used is called a Lento. Strictly speaking a Lento is two quatrains of eight syllables (a Double Lento has four quatrains, or as I have done, a Triple Lento with six quatrains). A Lento requires that you rhyme the very first word of each line in the stanza and have an ending rhyme of abcd. As you can see I took a little creative licensing here by repeating the first word and rhyming the second words instead and having an end rhyme of abab.

dVerse Poets Pub | Poetics: The Beautiful Sadness

Mama x 3

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The woman I refer to as my mother did not give birth to me. The person who gave birth to me, though I spent a very short part of my life with her did not mother me; thus, when I say and think “mother” it is for the woman who tried to adapt me, as I adapted her (that’s not a typo).

My maternal grandmother died when my mother was six years old. As such she was raised by her father and five brothers. Four older and one younger. Six over protective men and one female in the semi-rural south. I imagine it was not fun. Still, my mother grew up to be petite, willowy with naturally long, easy to manage haired, prim and proper and a neat freak. Regrettably (for her), we were soon to figure out I was head and tails my paternal grandmother’s child. The little girl she chose to adapt was a tall, big-boned, thick, nappy-haired, rough and tumble tomboy. From the word go it was struggle.

I tried to be the good daughter, as most daughters, do.  Did we love each other – of course.  We had our good days, but by the time I was in my mid teens my house was at war. The essence of the problem between my father and I was one thing.  If you’ve read some of my poetry, some of the story is there. I’m not rehashing it here. The essence of problem between my mother and I was that she never understood why I wasn’t grateful to have a mother and simply be obedient and everything a mother would want because after all she hadn’t had one and if she had, that was the kind of daughter she would have been.  I never understood, even before I was old enough to put it into words, why she could never understand that “I” was not her. Regrettably, it took my mother becoming fatally ill before things would change between us. Systemic sclerosis is a slow, but inevitably fatal bitch at its best and my mother was struck with the worst kind that took her away in a few short years. It was only in those last the last few years of her life that we became friends. Before she became so ill that she spent most of her remaining days in ICU, it was the closest to having a true loving mother-daughter relationship we had come.

In the interim, I met the man who would become my late-husband and in turn met his extended family. Family that was chosen by heart, if not technically by blood, but cousins nonetheless. I met one set of cousins in particular led by the family matriarch. Trust me, there is no other word that suits her. Still, upon getting to know her and seeing her relationship with her children, and they with her, and the extended family from there, I finally knew what that could feel like. I won’t lie, a part of me was a little envious at first, but you can’t feel envy when pulled into that much love. I told her secrets I had not told my own mother and was there with my cousins of heart when she finally went Home. I was blessed to have her in my life if for nothing but finally having that gift of Mother.

When I was young, I used to ask about the woman who gave birth to me. The subject was quickly changed, or I was suddenly punished for something. I learned without being told, I was never allowed to ask questions about her as a child, but I knew she existed. I had memories of her. When I was old enough to know to ask without caring about potential penalty, the one person who would have told me (my –skipped a couple of generations twin– paternal grandmother), was no longer around.  By my early teens I had decided, if I knew she existed, she in turn, had to know I did. If she were dead, I would have been told such. That I never saw her again was either because she could not get to me or did not want to. The latter option made no sense to me as even before I had children, I could not imagine a scenario other that death in which I would not be a presence at least in their young lives, so it had to be the first option.  By then and I was simply too busy living my own life to give much thought on what happened to hers.  And now, if she was/is alive and wanted to find me, I am so removed from my roots, it is a moot point.

But every now and then around Mother’s Day, this year being one of them, I think of all three mothers:The one I never knew, the one I got to know almost too late and the one by knowing gave me a little understanding on the other two.

Happy Mother’s Day Ladies.

“Osama Bin Laden Is Dead”

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“Osama Bin Laden is dead”

“Osama Bin Laden is dead”

That was not a typo. For nearly ten years I and so many others have waited to hear those words. It bears repeating.

As an American, a native New Yorker, a person among millions who can recall exactly where they were when the original towers went down and a person currently working two blocks from where the sparkling glass walls that will comprise the towers of the new World Trade Center itself, I am near speechless at the sheer wonder of this.

I cannot begin to imagine the extent of the sense elation/vindication the 2,974 families of the initial victims of 9/11 and the countless soldiers in Afghanistan we’ve lost must feel at this moment.

Obama can have his glory as being the president that got Public Enemy No.1. The political pontiffs can continue to go back and forth on their reports; I understand Pakistani is already ensuring they get their fair credit for their part in this operation, there will be time for that. When Barack Obama was first running for President, the spell checkers kept correcting his last name to “Osama”. I find it a fantastic poetic justice that tonight as I typed Osama my auto-correct changes it to Obama.

Still, as happy as I am, and I won’t lie, I am damned happy he is dead, a part of me is apprehensive. This by no means indicates our brothers and sisters-at-arms will be coming home anytime soon. Even as I type this I am reminded the bomb threat in Times Square here in New York, by someone inspired by the words of Bin Laden will be a mere a year ago on May 4th. It is still very much our reality that not all of the world will be happy out this. I fully understand our war on terror is hardly over. Osama Bin Laden may have merely a figurehead for Al Qaeda at this time, but he was their figure and we’ve just made a martyr.

But for tonight and the coming days, here in the land of the free and the home of the brave, I have just these words:

Ding dong Osama’s dead!
Bin Laden’s dead!
Bin Laden’s dead!
Ding dong Osama Bin Laden’s dead!

NaPoWriMo — Day Is Done…

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Time is oh so fleeting
Shorter than a sheep’s bleating
Many days in the sun, can still feel like none
Whether the grays are yearned
Or eventually earned
It takes years, some of fright some of fun
And we pray some will smile
For what’s left of their while
As Taps draws their tears, when “Day is done”.

What The Obituary Missed…

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What the obituary missed…

    • I’m minding my business, get that funny feeling and just know someone is ogling me. I turn around and see this old man wriggling his bushy, more salt than pepper brows, with a grin so hilariously lecherous, Grouchy Marx would’ve been envious.

      I’ve just met Papa Nick.

    • “If you were twenty years older and I twenty years younger, I would put a hurting on you!” This (or some variation thereof) was his favorite saying regardless of the person’s age or the subject.  It’s truly amusing when applied to children playing Chutes and Ladders who have (yet again) managed to beat him soundly at the game.
    • There’s a sign on the front door as you leave that reads “Check purse for teeth”. Pretty women who did not heed this sign found out why as they often had to call someone to collect Papa Nick’s dentures. Or if still in the vicinity, immediately return to the house to give the sneaky curmudgeon back his choppers, which of course was his plan all along.
    • Never leave any thing M&M around him. He would eat it and feign innocence (even when removing a stray one from his beard).
    • If you blinked, you would lose at chess. If you smiled, you would lose at chess.  If you breathed, you would lose at chess. Let’s face it, you would just lose at chess, period. Yes, he was that good (or that bad ass depending on his mood…).
    • “You are a young vibrant woman who is miserable for no reason other than to just be miserable. You need some dick woman.”  This was directed at his youngest sister, she was sixty-six years of age at the time.
    • First hand stories (and sometimes demonstrations) of taking apart a rifle, why his brothers-at-arms were closer to him that his brother by blood, the proper way to pour wine and why the Charleston is still the best popular dance ever.
    • After a particularly silly verbal exchange with the quick-witted scoundrel:

      Me: Old man, don’t make me love you!
      Papa Nick: Make love to me? Twenty years and a hurting little girl, I’ll show you what love is.
      Me: In your dreams, geezer!
      Papa Nick: Ya wanna get me summa them little blue pills and find out, juvenile?

      That was a few months ago for his 93rd birthday, the last time I saw Papa Nick.

What was the truest part of the obituary? “…and a host of relatives and friends who will miss him greatly.”

Goodness knows, I already do…

Rest In Peace, Papa Nick.

But when…?

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I have now attended a funeral for the third weekend in a row.

Third weekend. IN A ROW.

This new year is only 22 days old and so far I am not liking 2011 at all.

I walked out during the third or fourth person speaking on today’s dearly departed to go to the bathroom. I had my coat with me and instead of going back into the service I put it on and walked out the door. And kept walking;  I just wanted to go home. I was dressed very warm and could only really feel the cold on my face. It wasn’t a deal breaker and i really needed to clear my head so I decided to walk towards home until I became too cold and/or too tired.

That alone should have been a warning bell, but I was in no state to hear it.

As I’m walking I’m going through a tsunami of emotions.   I cycle in and out of insomnia, going two-three days without sleeping, then coming home and being out cold before 8pm and not rising until my alarm goes off at 5am.  These near weekly snow storms and work related issues have added to the stress. I bury one friend for infinity last week; then in a completely unexpected turn of events a former friendship I had emotionally buried suddenly finds itself resurrected this week, which brings in a whole new set of emotional turmoil as we awkwardly work out trying to find our way back to some state of what was.  Add in I went out, got completely wasted and had to go to work the next day with my head all over the emotional scale. And yesterday, I learn another friend has made the decision to move to another state and will be doing so relatively soon. I’ve put up a fantastic front, but I see this past week especially is taking its toll.

I was  five blocks from “home” when the warning bell I did not hear earlier went into full on Star Trek red alert klaxon mode. I was heading towards the wrong home. I was heading towards the home I lived in when I was still married. It is in the exact opposite direction of where I live now and had been walking out in this freezing ass weather for a good thirty minutes before I noticed. What the fuck? The enormity of it comes crushing down on me and suddenly I am freezing and exhausted. I hop in a cab and go home.

So here I am. In my warm bed, partially on my lap top typing this, partially gazing at what’s left of the sunlight bouncing off the snow-covered rooftops,  trying to defrost from more than the weather that’s left me feeling cold.  As I sit here, I realize, with all the emotional turmoil I’ve gone through, I’ve yet to cry.  Yes, I’ve shed tears. But I have yet to have that long hard, crawl into a fetal position, full-out, deep ugly soul cleansing bawl. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks hugging people, holding people, reaching out to people giving them encouragement, letting them know they’re going to be okay.  Yes, I could go and have been to my friends where I find succor and loving support.  But me being me, keep moving on. I’m moving on so well in fact, I head towards the wrong home. Why?  Because it was the last place where I was loved.

That no questions asked (because they already know or have a good idea), loved. That pull you into their arms, holding you tight loved. That not letting you go until it’s as out as it can be loved. That maybe it takes a few minutes, maybe it takes an hour, maybe it takes until you fall asleep exhausted loved. That’s what I need. However, only the Powers-That-Be can say when I’ll known such once more.

I know that breakdown is coming, but when? I pray that the tipping point does not occur in the middle of the work week, because that would be just craptacular to fall apart at work.

In the interim, I write and I wait…

Sigh…

In Smiling Silence – Redux

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Feeling forced into a role of valiance
For my tears seem of little credence
I bear this all in smiling silence

They say “It’s not for us to ask Him why”
Or the “It’ll get better by and by”
It’s two weeks! I’m not entitled to cry?
I bear this all in smiling silence

Trying to squelch fears in their own attitudes?
Is it for me folks spew these platitudes?
And THEY’RE upset I don’t nod in gratitude
I bear this all in smiling silence

Because I’m sitting here shattered-hearted
Some take it as permission to get started
On a run of their own dearly departed
I bear this all in smiling silence

Tears flow and I hide feeling contrite
Are my tears only allowed in the night
Far away from everyone else’s sight?
I bear this all in smiling silence

I’m not asking to dwell in an abyss
But I’m consoling others – something’s amiss!
Much as I need to give a moment to this
I bear this all in smiling silence

===== <>  =====

I initially wrote the above as an angry, sobbing stream of consciousness in my journal within days of becoming a widow.  Even, now years later, I sat biting my lip resisting the urge to choke yet another person who says “I’m sorry for your loss”, “It’s all part of a greater plan”, “He needed him more” and other well-meaning but sickeningly trite counsel. Watching a new widow of barely a week graciously handle the condolences that come her way, I can’t help but be reminded of when I was in that exact position.

I can tell by the half-glazed look in her eyes she’s merely going through the motions expected of her and all I can do is watch.  One moment she calls me to her, as she feels that I am the only one in the room who really understands exactly what she is going through. The next moment, like the one in which I’m just watching from a distance, she pushes me away as I am a reminder of what exactly she is now – a widow.  The stages of denial and anger just beginning their ugly battling. I’m also hoping that she’ll see,  though she is far from being able to see and accept it right now, that she also will get through this and will eventually be okay.

I’m headed for home soon. I left a copy of the above poem for her.  Just a way of letting her know that this anger at everyone being nice, even if by route of traditional platitudes, is also normal.  I’ll happily pay it forward and help her through those clichéd, but so true, seven stages as I was lucky to have the guidance of those who also traveled this road. For as annoying as it is to hear in repetition, the only acceptable platitudes were/are “one day at a time” and “it does get better”.

Because eventually we all learn – one breath, one moment, one minute and yes, one day at a time, it does.

One of the Strong Ones

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Yesterday morning about 8:30 am, I learn a good friend was killed in a car accident less than two hours previous. Derrick was a gentle giant of 6’8” and 500 pounds and nicknamed Darth. It was a well-earned nickname after single-handedly lifting me from the ground by my neck during a touch football game at a wedding reception (long story, but yeah, I deserved it). Considering I had just spoken to him and his wife on Saturday after the birth of their daughter, shock doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m sitting at my desk when I receive this news,  just as someone comes by and asks a question. Before the news can fully process, I shut off and respond to the query, because I don’t have time to give in to it right then and there. It is a useful trait that comes with being one of the strong ones.

As luck (hah!) would have it, Murphy’s Law rears its head in that yesterday was a training day. I’m the instructor; for a training scheduled to begin in less than an hour. 8:40 is about when I’m walking out of the door to go to my regular training venue. At 8:50 I was still sitting at my desk in semi-shock when my boss called about some urgent work related issue. Typical me – I take a deep breath, pull it somewhat together, compartmentalize, charge through and get things done. It is a useful trait that comes with being one of the strong ones.

As I set-out the training room materials, my mask must have slipped for a moment because only one person at the venue noticed I was off my game. I explained the situation briefly and went on about my business.  All during training, I’m ignoring my on-silent but constantly blinking cell phone. I know people want to talk to me, need to talk to me. I also know I had a class to teach. A class that any other day would run smoothly, but yesterday had back-to-back technical issues throwing the schedule off by a good forty-five minutes. I spent my lunch hour, not eating but on the phone putting out work and personal fires. It is a useful trait that comes with being one of the strong ones.

I get back to my office and everyone is in a titter over the approaching snowstorm. I quickly realize my original plans to be out the door on time are not going to happen. Nine hours from when I first received the news and an hour past my normal quitting time, I did something I never do. I lost my cool in front of a client. A well-meaning friend and co-worker who I had not had a chance to speak with came to chat and chose the wrong moment to be stubborn when I needed her to go away, while I was on the phone with a client. Let’s just say, not only did I forget about the hold button, but I owe my co-worker an apology. I know she’ll forgive me; because after twelve years of working together, I may yell a lot, but I do not out right snarl at someone, especially at work, without damn good reason. It is a useful trait that comes with being one of the strong ones.

I finally get home at 10:30pm. I am on the phone for another couple of hours, finally dealing with all things Darth. I’m fighting the desire to go and do everything I can to make it better, knowing all too well from personal experience, there really isn’t much I can do. But, I am also the only one in our age group who can provide that experience. The problem with being one of the strong ones is that nearly everyone accepts that of you 24/7/365.  Where do the strong ones go when they need to break down? Like when it’s two in the morning, and I’m caressing my neck in memory as I’m sitting up in the dark of my bedroom, the glow of my lap top watching me as I watch big fat juicy snow flakes fall and yet my tears can’t.

It is a not so useful trait that comes with being one of the strong ones.

This Is My December…

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“And I’d give it all away,
Just to have somewhere to go to,
Give it all away,
To have someone to come home to”

My December – Linkin Park

Oh, December in the Raivenne household was always a hoot.  The normally wannabe sophisticate, über-urban, gal-about-town, known and be-loathed all over, transforms into this insane “OhMyGAWDCanYouBeliveIt’sAlmostChristmas!” beast.  The weekend after Thanksgiving I (and begrudgingly the boys) would start dragging the decorations out and begin the annual tradition of transforming the abode into holiday splendor.

When we were living in an apartment, it was all confined to just the living room. However, once we had a HOUSE, oh good Lord!  I spared my family from decorating the bedrooms upstairs, but man did I didn’t vomit the holidays every where else! Each year, I moved the TV because the tree just HAD to be close to the window in order to be seen from the street.  The front porch and steps had their own garlands and lights. If you stood on the porch you could see all the little buildings and figures that graced the inside windowsill. The dining room had the Kwanza set. The kitchen and powder room would get holiday colored towels and mini decorations. Yeah, my family thought I lost my damned mind each and every year. And as curmudgeonly as all three males in the house would behave at the start of the process, at least the boys would catch some of my Christmasfluenza and get into the decorating spirit.

The hubby always stayed the Scrooge of the house; right down to his “Bah Humbug” black and white Santa hat, but deep down he enjoyed my shenanigans just as much.  One December I was depressed and refused to decorate. I think he thought if he waited me out I would pop into it, how could I not? When it was December 20th and no one iota of holiday décor was up, he got it. Mr. OhComeOnNotAllThisShitAgain? Was the one who got the boys and dragged decorations out that year. Yes, HUBBY went and got the decorations – that is how much he knew this was important to me and what a serious funk I was in to not be doing so. He was that desperate to do anything, even decorate for Christmas, to help me out of it.  The guys started to decorate the tree, but were doing such a horrible job of it the Virgo in me kicked in. Still, since my heart was not in it, which was the worst tree I have ever put up, to date.

I had not felt that bad again until the first Christmas after I became a widow. Still, I put up the holiday decorations that first year without him (or the boys, now men on their own, to help me) it was a lovely tree. Christmas 2007 was the last time I all out decorated and put up a tree. I moved in 2008 and all of my holiday stuff, including most of my spirit, is away in storage.  Something simple on my front door is about all I have been able to muster doing these past years for decorating.

I’m almost done with filling out this year’s Christmas cards (and man is my wrist tired!).  I am thinking about what to put on my door for this year, but that’s all. Still. It is only December 2nd and who knows? After a near three-year hiatus, maybe the Christmasfluenza bug will strike me again; I really do not know. Nevertheless, for right now, this very moment, the above verse from Linkin Park is my holiday song.

This is my December.

Getting “LOST”…

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I started writing this day after the LOST finale episode. I have refused to view any of my favored blogs, boards and forums because I wanted my opinions here however sublime, or completely far-fetched, to be my own as I try to digest what I’ve spent a part of the past few years of my life for.

Six years ago on Friday, September 22, 2004, just a few days after my birthday, I received an incredible eye-opening present: the pilot episode of LOST.

Ah, an opening eye…

LOST: Jack's eye - open

That most powerful metaphor for the window to the soul, and a symbol used many times throughout the run of the series, opens in a nice quiet lush grove of bamboo. Wait, this guy is lying down on his back in the middle of a bamboo grove, in a suit? And then a dog runs by? Who knew then that those two questions were a mere couple of minutes of “Huh?” in what was to become six years of “WTF?!?!?!?” By the time this (for the moment) nameless character follows the sounds and makes his way to the chaos of the plane crash on the beachfront, I know, and many will agree when I say, it was not just Jack Shepard’s eyes that were opened.

To date, still the most expensive pilot episode in television history, LOST captured my attention from Day One. I have loved television shows before LOST and I’m sure will love some future shows, but I seriously doubt that anything, ANYTHING, will ever come near to matching the unique viewing experience of the past six years that has been LOST.

For me, the brilliance of this show was not just in the amazing character development or the unique imaginative and downright insane story lines. Nor was it its amazing ability to give us questions that beget questions that beget questions. Like the survivors them selves, LOST took a most unusual disparate hodge-podge of people, who would have never in a million years have gotten together on their own, and created a community. Yes, a few friends and family have joined to watch a favored television show, but never on this scale. The instant camaraderie of strangers at major sporting events is the closet you can come to explain the immediate kinship between fans of LOST.

Flashback to 2006, The NYC LOST Meetup Group, of which I’m a proud member, was formed with maybe a dozen members at the first event. Twelve people who had nothing in common other than a love for a very unique, discombobulated, incredible show. After season three (admittedly the weakest season of the series), if anyone asked me what was going on in a disparaging tone of voice, I knew I had a non-fan in my midst and would refuse to answer. I’m not going to waste minutes of my life trying to explain a show as justification as to why I love it so much because someone else simply doesn’t “get it”.

It is spotting someone wearing a t-shirt with the numbers 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42 across the front and and immediately smiling. Being a LOST fan is being in an awesome (and yes, proudly geeky) club that only other fellow Losties can appreciate. It is akin to the self-satisfied, near smug look two Mac users will give to each other when in a coffee bar surrounded by PC users. The “we’re a part of something special and they they’re not” feeling. And just like a Mac or a PC, you either loved it or hated it, there was no middle ground. Now, flash-forward to this past Sunday (May 23, 2010). I left a wedding reception, with a friend, to hop a train and go to a bar to join about 150 other NYC LOST Meetup group members at a private event to watch the series finale. Yes, an entire bar was rented just to watch a TV show? -as I’m sure the non-fans rolling their eyes derisively are thinking, Yes, yes I did, and am damned happy about it. LOST dared to give viewers an unexpected look into being human, while also incorporating many religious, philosophical, and metaphysical themes in a way that was unique, insightful, and fun. It has set such a high standard that very few will be able to match in quality.

I admit while I still have so many questions wanting answers; I was in no way disappointed in how it all unfolded. The show was always about the characters, and then the overall mythology. Myths have the power they do because there is something about them that always remains something of a mystery. Even while exposing certain truths all myths still belie concrete logic at some level; but it doesn’t make the story being told any less interesting for it. This myth, this fairytale, this “what the hell was that?” versus the “Oh, that’s it!” is what kept us coming back week after week after week. That is what the writers and creators chose to focus on in closing out the finale season, and it works for me.

Was it a complete surprise to learn that despite all our vast theories of a sideways time line / alternate reality, all that really happened was the characters were in some sort of spiritual purgatory/limbo on the island until they resolved their myriad individual inner conflicts and could move on? In hindsight, not at all.

Granted the show left a lot up to the viewer’s interpretation, and that’s fine. I think the alternate reality was their moment to connect before they finally “moved on” to whatever place their spiritual beliefs dictate. One of the most obvious clues to this went right over my head from the beginning; the name of Jack’s father, Christian Shephard and the characters’ final meeting in a church. As Kate said, “That’s his name? Really?” There were several “D’oh!” smacking hands upside heads sounds as it all made perfect sense in that moment.

The plane crashed and everyone died, the “survivors” simply weren’t aware of it yet and were stuck in a limbo somewhere in between good and evil. All of the passengers had their personal demons within from their past lives, thus the flashbacks to tell their stories. In the end, they all found their way upon realizing that they had actually died. When John Locke finally let go, he was made instantly whole because he was already dead…he just needed to realize it to make it to the other side, and this other side was timeless. As Jack’s father stated “There is no NOW here.” Even for Hurley and Ben, who obviously were the island’s guardians for who knows how long, “when” they died — didn’t matter. This “moment” is very much in tune with Christian views where you will meet your loved ones again. Once they realized they were in fact dead, they could all be at Jack’s “funeral” at the same timeless, because Jack was the connection between all of them.

Over all, I thought the finale was excellent and confirmed that the heart of “LOST” was always about the characters, not the island. Even in the flash sideways timeline where the plane landed safely in LAX, the characters’ lives were destined to overlap. Finally, the closing scene was pure magic, with Jack’s eye closing in the same spot in which he found himself after the crash, with Vincent by his side. I am still processing the finale, but at this point, I feel that the show was a fantastic six-year journey and a welcomed oasis in the desert of prime time network television. I may not have seen eye-to-eye with many of the theories/assumptions/hopes that spun during its run. But to paraphrase an infamous John Locke line “I saw into the eye of the show and it was beautiful”

…And we’re back to the eye; the eye of Dr. Jack Shepard, as it slowly closes in the same bamboo grove in which we, the viewers, first laid eyes on him six seasons ago. I remember just as I was thinking damn the man who coined “lived together or die alone” is going to die alone, is when the dog Vincent comes and lays beside Jack as life fades from our hero and the screen fades to black. Even if they didn’t like it, few can deny that this was a fitting -if very predictable- end to this, amazing, wonderful, brilliant six-year mind-fuck of a show known as “LOST”…

See you in another life, brother. Namaste.

LOST: Jack's eye - closed