“It is always hard when someone dies, whatever the circumstances. A hole opens in the world. We must honour that loss. Otherwise the hole will never close.”
Haruki Murakami, 1Q84, Book 3; translated here from the Italian quotation
A hole that was not there before
Murakami’s image stays with me. He does not merely say that we are sad; he says that a hole opens in the world. When someone dies, we do not lose an abstract name. We lose a voice we could call, a familiar gesture, a place at the table, an answer we expected to hear. Even ordinary things change shape. The street is the same, the house is the same, yet someone who made them different is missing.
That absence cannot be measured by fame or by the number of years lived. It is not small simply because the death was expected, nor less real because the relationship was difficult. Every story leaves its own questions and bonds. That is why I think it is wrong to decide from the outside how much another person should suffer.
Our empty place: Stefania
For me that hole has a name: Stefania. I met her when she was twenty and I was twenty-four, shortly before I finished university. We were young, with our lives still to build. Our story began with that meeting, and our three children came into our lives. Stefania died on 30 May 2026, aged sixty-five. Since then I have missed not only the woman who was beside me, but also the person with whom I wanted to share what still lies ahead.
Our children miss their mother. We live with this loss together, but not in the same way: I can speak of the absence of my wife; I cannot claim to explain in their place what it is to lose a mother. There are moments when one sentence from her would be enough, her view of family news, the possibility of turning round and finding her there. Life goes on, and in going on it reminds us how much Stefania was part of it.
What it means to honour grief
The word “celebrate” may sound strange beside death. It does not mean rejoicing in a loss. It means giving it a time and a place: accompanying the person who died, saying their name, telling their story, standing beside those who remain. A funeral can be one form of this gesture, but it is not the only one. Looking at a photograph together, making a recipe that person loved, or listening without interrupting a memory can be forms of it too.
People do not all grieve in the same way. Some need to talk at once; others find words much later. Some want a shared ceremony; others keep their sorrow quiet. Respecting grief also means not imposing a script: not demanding tears as proof of love, or composure to make everyone else comfortable.
When the world asks us to return to normal
At first there are calls, embraces and words. Then other people’s lives resume their rhythm. The life of someone who has lost a loved one often does not. Absence appears on an ordinary Sunday, when there is news to share, or in the instinctive reach for a phone number. “You have to move on” may be a sincere wish, but it can sound like “Do not speak about it again.”
Perhaps a friend can do something simpler: remain present after the first few weeks. Ask how someone is without requiring a reassuring answer. Allow the name of the person who died back into conversation. Do not treat every memory as an obstacle to healing. Sometimes remembering is precisely how a person continues to have a place in our lives.
Does the hole really close?
On one point, though, I find myself arguing with the line. “Otherwise the hole will never close” seems to suggest that if we grieve properly, the emptiness will eventually disappear altogether. I am not sure it does. Some absences are never filled; we learn to live with them without pretending that someone else has taken that place. We can smile again, make plans and love, and none of that proves we have forgotten.
Ritual and companionship are not guaranteed repairs. There is no deadline by which pain must end and no single correct form of memory. Their value lies in telling the truth: this happened; this person lived; they still matter to us. Perhaps the hole does not close like a door. Perhaps we learn not to fall into it every day, and to see through it some of what we were given.
What I would like to leave my children
I hope you will not rush to silence your own pain or someone else’s. Your mother need not become a memory kept safely out of sight: you can speak of Stefania, tell one another what you miss, laugh about a moment you shared with her and cry for what we cannot share in the future. You do not have to protect me by avoiding her name. I want her to remain part of our conversations and our family. And when you meet someone who is grieving, do not always search for the perfect sentence: return, listen, offer real company even after everyone else’s visits have ended. Honouring those we miss does not mean ceasing to live. It means carrying into life what their presence gave you.
Papy