Vachon Imagined

“Rest in peace” lay across his tombstone like carefully drawn lines etched into stone. The thing he never seemed to have in life now appeared as words upon a monument forever sealed; somehow holding not only his memory in place, but a responsibility that followed me long after I walked away. No matter how far I traveled from that tombstone or those words, it felt as though it was up to me to find that peace for him.

The one thing that evaded both him and me became a mission—not only to understand myself, but to move beyond that understanding into something much larger. Something vast enough to contain both his possibility for suicide and my possibility for living. Arguably, I cannot say I have done much of that living in proportion to my age, because truly living requires sacrifice. It demands the willingness to remain present, to stay in the moment, and to stop arguing with reality.

Too often, we create monuments within consciousness itself—rigid structures of thought that resemble the stone markers we place over the dead. Deep in their calling, yet superficial in their nature. Like the words rest in peace, they point toward something profound while often failing to embody it.

Rest in peace. May we all do more of that while we are still here. May we not save peace for tombstones, ashes, and dust. Instead, may we leave people with the memory that, while we failed, we tried. While we suffered, we remained open. And while we hurt, we lived—fully, honestly, and completely.