Death is such a cliché. 
 
You’d think after experiencing one Death in the Family, and then one  after the other, you’d be numb to it and finally see that it was indeed, inevitable. What was meant to happen is what is supposed to happen. Fate. Destiny. 
 
“That’s life”, you say.
How ironic to say that during…Death.
“That’s life”, you say again.
 
You’d think since Death, as an end point of the beginning, you’d be taught how to deal with it, from your very first experience of loss, only to realise how the next one will hurt more than the last. The thought of your Family shrinking, the thought of more empty chairs during Dinner, noises in the house lessening, their existences reduced to memories. 
 
“Hold onto them with pride”, you say.
How ironic to say, when their existence was what brought them to be.
“Hold onto them with pride”, you say.
 
You’d think it would be easier for you to accept it then, this…reality. One wake up call after the other, taunting you. You see people from birth, grow up around them, you know they’re your own flesh and blood, and yet you forget how fragile they are. How fragile we all are, and that no matter how you perceived them to be – superheroes in disguise, these invincible people…death can touch them, and take them, just like that. Cancer, or a Heart Attack, whatever it wills.  You forget to see that beneath all that…one day, their red capes and black masks will be left in the emptiest corners of their rooms, gathering dust. And you find yourself as empty as the four corners of the home that was once a witness to the beauty of their everyday lives.
 
“Death is such a cliché”, you say.
And yet every time you feel its presence in your life, it feels just like the first time.
“Death is such a cliché”, you say.
And then isn’t such a cliché after all.