In my house, death was always with us. Or, to put it differently, we were accompanied by fear of it. The dead were spoken of as if they were still alive when we felt sorry for them.
Or they were forgotten when we loved them. It also happened that their death or its circumstances were used to blackmail and awaken a sense of guilt in the living.
But in the end, death, the very essence of the inevitable, was never talked about.
For my loved ones, this topic is uncomfortable, stressful. Talking about death and with death gives me comfort, motivation, a moment of forgetfulness in remembering, recalling.
