There’s something about the finality of a funeral service. If you’ve lost a loved one, you’ll understand. It’s the culmination of shared grief and a chance to celebrate the memory of the one you’ve lost. It’s closure, a moment to say your last goodbyes.
But it also feels like a forced ending. As if people are telling you, “OK, we did all the ceremonial stuff, so it’s time for you to move on now.” And then the world keeps turning like this catastrophic event never happened, like things can just go back to how they were.
Even though I know it would be detrimental to the healing process, sometimes I wish that we didn’t have funerals. If we don’t have to say goodbye, then they aren’t really gone.
Ah, I don’t know. Losing Diogo Jota has got me feeling too many things. It’s hard to grieve as a fan, because in some ways, I don’t feel justified. I didn’t know Diogo. He’s not my family, my friend, my teammate. I just watched him on my MacBook monitor for a couple of years. Do I really have a right to be crying as I type this from over an ocean away?
But then I think it’s lovely that so many people around the world will remember Diogo. His wife, his children, and his loved ones will carry most of the burden of this heavy grief, but maybe we can help lighten the load for them, if only just a little bit, by recollecting him and reassuring those that loved him most that he won’t be forgotten.
Does that help? The makeshift memorials and outpouring of pain on social media and beyond? I hope it does. I hope that Diogo’s wife, Rute, and his parents can see how beloved he was and gain some peace from the knowledge that his short life had an impact on so many people.
We say ‘you’ll never walk alone’, but really, this dark path ahead of Diogo and Andre’s important people is one where we have no right to follow. The most we can do is strike a match in hopes of helping to light their way.