“…in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes,” Benjamin Franklin once wrote in a letter to Jean-Baptiste Leroy, circa 1789.
This is why I am very anal about getting my payslip twice a month, as if to validate my sheer surrender. It just seems good practice to always compute the figures, not necessarily to search for a miscalculation, but more of to add dignity to my involuntary role as a taxpayer. Regardless of how these taxes are used or allocated in this country, I am not complaining. I’ve simply succumbed to the system and I am in this comfortable state where I simply accept it.
Given this inevitability of taxes, lately I’ve been finding myself trying to accept the certainty of death as well.
The tricky part about death is that it’s not as simple as filling up a BIR form or paying a visit to the paymaster on a free afternoon. There is no sense of order in dying; it can even be random and meaningless at times, if not tragic or peaceful.
I always knew it would end to this since that gloomy night in January when I was told that my dad is diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I just couldn’t fathom how the winding road ahead would be, filled with bumps and wrong turns and forks that lead to the same destination. Why must he suffer so?
The death rattle begins tonight. Anyone who has ever been with a loved one who is but a few blinks away from eternal repose would be familiar with this haunting and chilling sound that comes from the throat.
If I may excuse myself. I have some grieving to do.