At the hour of decline the word resurrection arises. Beyond every miraculous episode. From the depths of life, a power suddenly appears, which says that being is against death. Believe this with me.
your friend Paul R."
(One of Paul Ricoueur's final letters.)
Sometimes I just miss my grandma's hugs and smile. Then, among several extremely happy memories that make me extremely sad because she is utterly lost in death, an image arises: I arrive to her home, she sees me walking into the front yard while she stands by the living room's window. She smiles and disappears, and a few seconds later, while I am climbing the three steps that lead from the garden to the main door, I see her running across the corridor, smiling, her eyes shining and her arms wide open to hug me. We hug each other, we kiss each other, and we laugh. And we are extremely happy. And I want to stay forever, and she wants me to do so, like when I was a small kid. It was always like that. To meet each other, to hug each other. Extreme happiness.
Despite my grandmother died 10 and a half years ago sometimes I miss her so much, and I feel so compeled to hug her, that for a couple seconds I forget that she is dead. Then suddenly I remember that, and try to cope with it. And then, I cannot avoid to hold the tiny, strong, mythical hope of being wrong about death as a definitive end. I do not struggle against that impulse anymore. I surrender to the might of yearning and accept as a humble atheist the poetry with which my mortal soul tries to confort me in these moments of sorrow.
