For Dan and Ally

I really thought I shouldn't do this, and couldn't do it without coming off as exploitative or just plain silly. But in the face of sadness, after losing my beloved puppy dog and two good classmates in one summer, this is one I HAVE to write.

I deal with language. I sing it. I write it. I love it, and here's why; language is a net that reigns in a world that too often seems to be running away from us, or even with us. When we describe something, a little piece of our world becomes knowable, if not totally understandable. It's my desire to use it here to maybe hold down a world that in the past few hours, has been nothing less than out of control.

But I begin with the admission that there are times when the demands are too much; when we try to write down what we have come to know and we bend the words into strange new shapes and they break. There are no words for what happened to Ally and Dan. None. Never will be. But there are words for us, I think, and here are a few.

Whatever pain they were spared or better place they've arrived at can't really provide a suitable salve for the pain we feel; we can't apply the bandage when, in all honesty, we don't know where it hurts. For me, there is no joy to be found in this, and no comfort, at least not now. To allow ourselves to believe there is seems wrong- "seems" being the key word--these are opinions, not assertions. What we're left with, then, is knowledge. Knowledge that though some of us may sob in a crowd and others retreat to our rooms, some grieve for a year, others for a day, at the moment we're all hurting, every one of us and we don't know where, how much, or for how long. When you feel as if something very dear has slipped through you fingers, you can at least know that many others are also holding out empty palms. When you know you cannot articulate what you feel, you may at least rest assured in the knowledge that the only thing anyone can articulate right now is how inarticulate they are. If you're walking around with a hole where something should be, know that it isn't just you. Stephen Sondheim summed up what I just wrote in a single lyric line: "No one is alone, truly."

A note on where we go from here. Death may mean the world to the dead, but to us, it has no purpose, unlike it's opposite birth, which is naturally the assignation of place and thus of purpose. So try not to focus on the fact that, because they're gone so soon, you fear you might not live to a ripe old age, either. Instead, look at all they folded into the few years they had. The randomness of death is terrifying, yes, but the randomness of life is beautiful. In defiance of science and reason and sometimes even fate, good people are born into this world. They run around it with eyes wide open and blood pumping furiously, and they leave their imprints all over. Again, for proof that I'm no Pulitzer winner, look at the Man Himself, JRR Tolkien, who said it best;

‎"I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.

"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."

I recommend writing down your thoughts about the situation, even if you never share them. I recommend leaning on your friends, or even people you don't know--hell, if anyone's reading this and needs to talk, I'd be more than happy to listen. But most of all, try to pull off the impossible trick of sobbing and smiling all at once. Weep for two wonderful people who were taken from us, regardless of where they are now. But also smile, not just because they were given time but, against the astronomical odds of the vast, cold cosmos, you were given time, and to the best of your knowledge, you still have a great deal left.

In conclusion, I think everything has its currency; we pay for sustenance with money, friends with time, and love with loss. It's the steepest price there is, but only in paying it do we find the sweetest rewards. What I hoped I've conveyed with my language tonight, ladies and gents, is that even in times like these you aren't alone, and you are alive. I can't think of two more important things to write about, or to read about. From the Torah, or Jewish Bible; "Zekher ẓaddik liverakhah--may the memory of the righteous be for a blessing."

Love you all. Sleep well, and see many of you tomorrow.