It doesn’t matter if it’s twenty years down the road or ten, if he realizes the full breadth of what he’s lost or is still caught up in willful and sullen ignorance. It doesn’t matter if his death was good or just or honorable, doesn’t matter if they got to say goodbye, if they saw the reaper coming or were able to count the seconds until brain activity ceased. It doesn’t matter that they never got to say the words, never realized those words had any meaning for them, forgot that those words used to be a buoy in the storm. It doesn’t matter that they were never together, had only been together for a few weeks, a few years, a few decades, hadn’t been together for far too long. It doesn’t matter that they’ve made love hundreds of times, dozens of times, one time, never. It doesn’t matter if their last words were sweet and meaningful, were hate-filled and angry and resentful. It doesn’t matter that he was ready, never saw it coming, accepted his fate, wanted to shout recriminations to the ceiling. It doesn’t matter that he was sorry, that he was resigned, that he was a peace. It doesn’t matter that he knew, had no idea, had an inkling, had a hope, had a dream.
Dead is dead, and nothing changes that.