Death of Immortality
At nine years old, most children are lost in the wonder of the world, playing in the sandbox of possibility, unburdened by the weight of time or mortality. But for me, there was a day when that changed. A singular moment when the veil of permanence was torn away, and I was struck by the stark realization that life, as bright and endless as it seemed, was finite. It hit me hard, like the shock of a cold wind, something incomprehensible yet undeniable. Death would come. To me, to everyone. And it was a betrayal of sorts, wasn’t it? The universe suddenly had a cruel set of rules, a system I never agreed to, and it felt like the ultimate rip-off.
Up until that point, the days had felt infinite, the future was just a continuation of the present. I could live, breathe, experience—forever. But in that moment, life became fragile. The things I loved lost a bit of their color, and the meaning of it all seemed to slip through my fingers. *Why do anything if it’s just going to end?* I asked myself. And it’s a question that never stopped lingering in the back of my mind, quietly shaping the way I see the world.
Even now, as I reflect on my father’s life and the tremendous work he did in Detroit’s inner city, the question returns. Here was a man who spent seven days a week working tirelessly to make a difference, to better the lives of others, with an infectious optimism that touched thousands. He was a force of change, someone who mattered to the people around him, someone who was celebrated. I turned to the internet, hoping to find a treasure trove of information, articles, perhaps even a memorial of sorts. But instead, I found only scraps—just a couple of pictures, and a fleeting mention of his social center.
The absence felt jarring. *How could this be all that was left?* I wondered. If someone as impactful as my father could slip into obscurity, what hope was there for me? That nine-year-old question, that lingering shadow of doubt, crept back in. *Why do anything, if in the end, even those who remember you will forget?*
After all, my father’s legacy isn’t confined to the digital breadcrumbs left on the internet. It’s in the hearts of the thousands he helped. It’s in the lives that were changed by his optimism, his persistence, and his work.
Still, it’s hard to fully shake the melancholy, the fear of being forgotten. That existential knot that tightens when you think of how time erases all. But then, as your mind circles back to that old question—*why do anything if it all ends?*.
Maybe it’s about how you improve things while you’re here on Earth, for future generations.
I can accept that for now.
And now I must leave this reflection, the here and now is calling as I just remembered I have a piece of delicious chocolate cake waiting for me in the fridge.