Loss and Avalanches

I'm not afraid of my own death. The emptiness, the absence of being, the incomprehensible nothingness—it's all a frightening matter, but I can't say I'm terribly bothered by it. Perhaps I don't fully understand my own mortality, but I'd wager that none of us truly do. One day, I will die, and that will be it.

No, I'm not afraid of my own death, but I am afraid of losing the people I love. I'm afraid of existing in a world without those close to me. It's a seeping fear, one that finds its way into every crevice of my consciousness, one that infuses my mind with general nervousness and my heart with general sorrow. I'm constantly reminded of the fragility of existence, I'm always afraid that a loved one will die in some tragic accident, that they'll be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wrong place, wrong time. I couldn't prevent that sort of death, which scares me, which terrifies me. I don't want to be alone.

I'm not afraid of my own death, but I am afraid of dying in an avalanche. Dying inside a mine is a close second, but nothing tangible can outweigh the horror of snow like concrete, of snow like boulders. Even worse would be to die from asphyxiation; once the snow settles, it settles like cement, and the warm air you exhale melts a little bubble around your head, and then it freezes again, and then you die, you die just like that. Horrible. Horrifying. In middle school science, we spent some time discussing avalanche safety. It's funny, maybe, a part of the quirky and unique small mountain town educational experience, but the truth is that every single person knew at least two others who died in an avalanche. Often more.

I'm afraid of losing the people I love and I'm afraid of dying in an avalanche. These fears don't define me, I don't let them define me, but they do haunt me nonetheless. They shadow my footsteps nonetheless. I wish I could turn on a light to drive them out.