By Patsy Kelly
That iconic phrase is taken from Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven,” a poem published in 1845. It recounts the pain of grief after the loss of the beloved Lenore. Poe was very familiar with grief, having been orphaned at a young age and later losing his wife, Virginia Clemmons. Poe experienced the deaths of many people in his life, leading to the conclusion that grief was one constant when there were few others to be found.
“The Raven” tells us how despair over the death of a loved one can become a sort of prison. We will see beautiful sunsets, but not with our loved one—nevermore. We will experience joys of births, but not with our loved one—nevermore. We will travel, perhaps see new sights, but not with our loved one—nevermore.
We could make a litany of what can never again be experienced fully because we can’t share those events with the one we would most wish to be at our side. We might even make it a self-fulfilling prophecy. If I continue to repeat to myself and others what will never again be possible, I, by so saying, make it so.
Sooner or later, we are left at a turning point. We can continue on the path of repeating “nevermore.” In so doing, we seal our future, fating ourselves to a miserable, resentful life. We are perfectly free to choose such a fate. No one can stop us, or convince us to the contrary, hard though they may try.
We have to ask ourselves, at this juncture, “Is this what I really want for myself?” We have to face what that means for us—a repetitious reliving of dying—a nonexistence. Poe wasn’t the only one to face such a dismal possibility. Such choices are made every day.
We have yet to decide, you and I. Each morning brings us a sunrise. Each dusk, a promise of stars, even if they hide behind clouds. We still have a mystery to unfold—the mystery of ourselves. Yes, it is a more solitary life now, without our loved one. Yet, life it is. Life holds mystery, questions to ask, unknowns to explore. We might ask ourselves, “Are we willing to relinquish all that—mystery, questions, unknowns—for the one known death?” We might ask ourselves, “Isn’t that cheating a little bit? Isn’t that cheating ourselves?” And isn’t that robbing some of the joy from our past lives with our loved ones, because we claim all joys from now on are hollow?
Before we go too deep and too far afield with asking such questions, we are left with this: life. We still breathe, in and out. We still see, smell, touch. We still sense the wonder that is this world. Isn’t it a bit premature to discount all of that? Isn’t it worth acknowledging to ourselves, “I live?”
