The most beautiful gift
Some death notices are strangely moving. It was a Thursday and I came home from work. My son, who had been in guitar lessons that afternoon, was strumming a few chords for me. «Do you know this one?» he asked. It was «Purple Rain» by Prince. A few hours later, the news that the pop star had died spread via the Internet's neural communication networks. It was a shock. Like everyone who cared about Prince and his music, I couldn't believe it at first. I went online to get information and share my feelings. I listened to his music, which had been my music, and cried a little. Prince was only 57 years old, two years younger than my father when he died. And as always with a death close to my heart, I also cried a little for my father.
«Some death notices are strangely moving.»
My children looked at me in amazement. «Prince has died,» I explained, throwing up my hands. «Oh, really?» they said. Then they turned back to their activities. Every generation has its heroes. The next day, my daughter came home from school and said: «My colleague told me her mum was totally ticked off about Prince.» When I was my daughter's age, I was totally in love with Prince and his music. It was everything to me, a wordless answer to the overriding question of the time: who am I, what am I doing here, and what am I going to do with this thing called life? His music said: «Kiss» and «Lets go crazy!» and «Sign of the Times». It was hope and the future. And now that future is the past, and we teenagers of yesteryear are the parents mourning the death of our idols. The next day, a Saturday, we celebrated our son's birthday. We had breakfast with friends, there were presents and cake, and later we went to the swimming pool.
His music said:
«Kiss» and «Lets go crazy!»
Before going to bed, we summarised the day. We talked about the night my son was born, about his new life as a twelve-year-old. «What will actually remain of us when we die?» he asked. I talked a bit about the art that people create, the knowledge that is passed on, the memory that lives on in the bereaved. But he said: «I mean very concretely. The flesh turns back to earth, doesn't it? And maybe a few bones remain, because they don't rot so well.» What remains at the end? Memories? Music? Just a few bones, earth to earth, dust to dust? The son said: «On my birthday, I always have to remember that every second I live brings me closer to death.» I nodded. Then I asked him to play me «Purple Rain» again. He played and sang along. Then he said: «I got the greatest gift from you.» It was an office chair, not exactly the jackpot. He winked at me. «You gave me life.» In the end, love remains. It is the most beautiful gift.
