How can death speak for us? Death can give voice to loved ones and admirers. It can call out eloquence; it can welcome lament. But death itself is silent. It ends all means of communication. No more words, no more nods, no more raised eyebrows or furtive glances.
To say is to breathe life. As long as we inhabit this earth, we speak whether we wish to or not. Our silence holds volumes. Each evasion gives everything away. Times when we feel most sly and successful are the ones where truth drips out, over and around our most carefully affixed masks.
But we never see it. We feel the tightness of our refusals. Often we succeed in hiding the gestures and expressions away. Passion, however, always finds its voice. It sneaks out beyond our understanding or control. It is not always noticed. Sometimes it can be too subtle or quick.
Life wants to talk, cry, shout and sing itself. Only in our death do we succeed in hiding away and saying no more. As long as we have a body, we will tell all about ourselves, even if the most lovely thoughts are carried away safely with the wind.