Sunday, August 17, 2025

What Remains

It’s often the case that lyrics from songs I listened to the night before play over and over in my mind the following day. Today, it was that line from Trent Reznor’s haunting tune, Hurt:

Everyone I know
Goes away in the end

Near the very end of his life, Johnny Cash covered the song, but I’d latched onto the line when Nine Inch Nails recorded it in 1994.

As with any phrase of this sort, you can ascribe various meanings to it, which is true of art in general, but clearly in Cash’s interpretation, this was about death.

Death as a topic is one that I usually avoid, because it would seem that there’s no coming back from it. No sequels. Regardless of our differences, whether we like bacon or not, smoke weed, go to church, use a treadmill, are Republicans, Moslems, Jews, Communists or people battling Parkinson’s, all of our individual stories have the same ending — and as we age, it looms closer and larger.

Speaking with old friends recently, I enquired about some of our mutuals, only to receive one or another of that all-too-familiar refrain:

“He died last week.”

“She’s gone.”

“Oh, didn’t you hear? Dead.”

It gets to the point you don’t want to ask any longer. But then again, there is new life all around us, reminders that the spirit that animates us lives on well beyond our own time here on earth.

Living with my grandchildren. I get to see their beauty, feel their energy, hear their laughing, salve their hurts, indulge their dreams, encourage their hopes and — occasionally — tell them stories from long ago.

Stories about the people I’ve known who have gone or will be going away. But even as we disappear, our stories don’t have to end. Like good topsoil, our best stories can remain to help build the future.

That’s why I tell them. 

HEADLINES:

 

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