Death -- What a Concept

I ran into an interesting post at Susie Bright's blog, about Ariel Gore and the memoir she allowed herself to write after her mother died:

 http://susiebright.blogs.com/susie_brights_journal_/2014/03/lung-cancer-noir-ariel-gores-masterpiece.html#tpe-action-posted-6a00d8341c5e4053ef01a3fcce7c30970b

It inspired me to make this comment:

I had appalling dreams after my father died, and dream logic followed me into waking life.  I discovered that not only could I not confront the reality that my father was dead, I could not even deal with the reality of death, period, for anyone.  I would find myself imagining corpses living still, drawn-out lives in drawers and back bedrooms, and saying things like, "Oh, yes, she's dead -- but how dead is dead, really?"  It was over a year before I stopped skidding over the concept of death and could say, "Dead is dead.  My father is dead."

Now that my father is definitively dead, though, I can feel his presence more than I could when death didn't exist in my world.  The other day, I saw a joke that involved Marxist jargon and a horrid pun, and I immediately sent it out to the family:

"Q: Why is it that when you flush the toilet at Karl Marx's place, you can hear the sound of stringed instruments?
"A: Because of the violins inherent in the cistern.
"This has been a George S. Burt Memorial E-Mail."

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Yes, he would have liked that one."\\