The End of an Era

On grief, love, and what remains when everything fades away.

My father is fading.

With him, the last trace of unconditional love in my life is fading. My mother, the love of my life, is already gone. My grandparents too. Now it’s just him—fragile, wavering. And I stand here, still, suspended in this moment where every breath feels precious, as if time is slipping through my fingers, impossible to hold.

But what really remains?

Sadness? Yes, it overwhelms me, but it’s not alone. There’s also a strange clarity. Death forces us to confront what we've ignored, casting a harsh light. Every word, every glance feels heavier, more real. And as the world begins to fade away, all that’s left is the present moment, where everything falls into its rightful place. 

I wonder: does he know? Does he feel the end approaching, as I do? His silence is deafening. Our glances, heavy with unspoken words, suffocate under the weight of all they wish to say.

A farewell? Yes, this will be it. The final goodbye. There will no longer be that pure, unconditional love that asks for nothing in return. A love that isn’t earned, but simply exists, unwavering, because it has always been there.

I have my own children, of course, but the love I give them is colored by responsibility, and by fears as well. With them, I watch over. But him — he was my refuge. Today, I hold his hand, as fragile as a memory, where once it was he who carried me. There’s a quiet sorrow in this role reversal, a silent grief in becoming the protector of the one who once protected me. 

The world feels heavier now, as if it’s already mourning his absence.  

When he’s gone, who will keep the fragments of my childhood? Who will remember the moments I’ve forgotten, the ones he held within him like a book that’s no longer opened? Parental love is so quiet, we often forget it’s there — until it’s gone. That’s when we discover the emptiness, the quiet solitude that settles in. And suddenly, we feel terribly alone.

Soon, no one will be left. No one who has always been there

They call it "living grief" — the grief that comes before the loss, suspending us in that in-between where we know, where we wait, but are never truly ready. Christian Bobin once said: "For something to be true, it must not only be true, but also enter into our lives." Grief is exactly that — a reality that seeps into us and becomes a part of who we are.

When my mother passed away, I remember the doctor’s simple yet unexpected words: "Look at your arm. See the blood flowing? She lives in you." It was his way of saying that grief doesn’t mean the end, that the loved one continues to live through us. But what I understand now is that it's not words or theories that soothe the pain. It’s allowing the emptiness to simply be.

In today’s modern world, we’ve lost sight of this truth.

Today, grief has been commodified, turned into a product to be sold and consumed. We now hear about "grief tech," a growing industry that includes virtual memorials, "deadbots," and digital avatars recreating our lost loved ones through AI, machine learning, and deepfakes. These technologies, with their unsettling ability to replicate voices and faces with eerie precision, allow for interactive versions of the deceased, built from video, audio, or written archives. Companies like HereAfter AI focus on preserving memories of the dead through simulated conversations based on personal data. Replika, originally designed as a general-purpose AI companion, has also been adapted to mimic the personalities of lost loved ones, offering users a chance to interact with a bot that reflects their memories. Meanwhile, a Berlin-based startup, Tomorrow Bio, goes even further, promising the cryopreservation of bodies for future reanimation

But what's the point?

In a world obsessed with preserving memory, these technological illusions promise a sense of continued presence. Yet, all they truly do is postpone the inevitable: real, irrevocable loss. Love and life cannot be simulated; they are bound to the imperfection and finality of death.

What is frozen dies twice: once in life, and again in the illusion of eternity. This pursuit of immortality pulls us further from the true essence of love — the act of letting go. Grief can't be reduced to a digital transaction; it’s a deeply human process, shaped by memories that gradually fade and details that blur, like a Turner painting dissolving into light.

Forgetting, too, is a way of being faithful to what once was. Accepting absence allows the other to continue existing in that quiet, intimate dialogue we carry on with them.

Sometimes, the words of others nourish this dialogue. In Marseille, there’s a bookstore called La Pharmakeia, where books are prescribed like remedies. They believe that literature can illuminate even the darkest corners of grief, that certain stories have the power to heal invisible wounds. Like the story Kafka supposedly told a little girl who was mourning the loss of her doll. To comfort her, he wrote letters, making her believe the doll had simply gone on a journey and was sending news of her adventures. Later, he gave her a new doll. The girl, surprised by how different it was from the original, was told that her travels had changed her. Years later, as an adult, the girl is said to have found a note hidden inside the doll: “Everything you love will probably be lost, but love will return in another form.”

I know that moment is near—the one when grief will no longer be an abstraction but a reality, when it will become a part of me. A void that no one can fill, and that no one should. 

Because, the true work of grief isn't about replacing the absence, but making space for it. Learning to dwell within it : 'May their memory be a blessing,' says the Jewish tradition. And perhaps the deepest truth is this: love never truly disappears. It shifts, it evolves, but it endures. In embracing this, we don’t become less — we become more. More resilient, more open to whatever life brings next. 

So, what remains when everything fades away? It’s not the illusion of a frozen eternity, but our ability to live with impermanence. And in that impermanence, we discover a new strength — the power to keep loving, not despite everything, but because of everything that once was.

MD

In tribute to my father, who has flown to the heavens.