My dear boy,
Earlier today, someone had asked a question: “How many children do you have?”. I paused, contemplating what my answer should be. Someone may wonder why that should require a certain level of mental gymnastics to arrive at the answer. But the big question is: do we stop counting the dead?
If yes, at what point do we stop counting the dead? Because to stop counting the dead, is it not to forget their memory? And how does a father bear to forget the memory of his children? Would that not suggest that the name “widow” or “widower” is a contradiction in that, to stop counting the dead is to assume they were never there in the first place? Hence, appellations or tags which suggest their earlier presence should not be used. And if we should toe that line of thought, are we not, in other words, suggesting that our lives returned to what it was had they not been there?
Again, if we are to stop counting the dead, do we stop counting when those who knew the dead are themselves dead? Perhaps we should count them, but in the negative. This, I believe, should validate the use of words like “orphan,” “widow,” “widower,” suggesting that they were here but not anymore. However, I don’t know how many hear their parents, who have lost both parents, describe themselves as “orphans.” Is there a point we get to, and it’s expected that you are to be without a father and a mother?
If so, it suffices that there is a point in our lives when we can stop counting the dead. As much as I would love to engage in this circumlocution, as it may seem, what should the answer from a father to the question “How many children do you have?” be, when that father has lost his children?
See, my dear boy, I suppose that the bane of human struggle is memory preservation, considering that a man truly dies when he is forgotten. As such, everything you see- from the high-rise buildings, scientific breakthroughs, to artistic marvels- is geared towards the preservation of the memory of the mastermind behind them. These things can take diverse shapes or patterns. They can even come wrapped in a feel-good story or a people-first narrative. In all, at the heart of it is that deep desire to be remembered, even after death.
The highly acclaimed Disney Pixar movie Coco suggests that a memory preserved is a life well lived. I had never really paid attention to the movie, but as you would find, I had to watch it because someone very dear to me would not stop talking about it. Isn’t it surprising how the things that mean the world to those that we care about? And so I did. In the movie, we find that once a person is forgotten here in this world, likewise the person is forgotten in the netherworld. They’re ultimately gone. Although steeped in Spanish mythology, it does lend credence to my argument on counting the dead, because to not count them is to forget them.
Hence, to forget them is to “kill” their essence. It then follows that for every wonder you see, for every attempt at forging one’s destiny, is locked therein the person’s essence. Be it music, be it a film, be it a piece of equipment, whatever, everything we do, everything we touch has our essence trapped in it. Speaking about essence, we leave traces of our DNA on everything we touch. Science calls this shed DNA. Leslie A. Pray, Ph.D., explores its pitfalls in Legislative Landmarks of Forensics: California v. Greenwood and Shed DNA.
As such, my dear boy, you must leave in everything an essence of you that men would not try to flush down the toilet of forgetfulness. Do stay safe.
love,
Dad.
