Hi there. It’s been a while since I posted. The thing that has prompted me to do so today is the death of someone I never even met, but whom you can check out through her Instagram site. I’ll bet it’s as close to a snapshot of her essence as you’d ever find online.
Her name was KD Cyr, and you can read her lovingly written obit here. She was only 23, and she died as the result of a car crash.
It really bugs me. Recently, I learned of the death of Charlie Carlson, who wrote Weird Florida and who contributed stories to both of the ghost anthologies that I worked on. But he was 72, and even though I wish he’d been able to beat the cancer that killed him, I’d say he had a full, impressive, and weird (I mean that in the best way) life.
KD was on target for the same, but she didn’t get that chance.
I’m fascinated with “death culture,” as KD seems to have been, too: though I can’t truly speak for her. But just generally, to some, it makes people think that we take death, when it happens, less seriously than others. Or that, when we die, especially in an untimely way, that we were asking for it. And that’s just not the case. We mourn when we lose others, and we don’t anticipate our own demise in a gleeful way.
We just look at death through a different filter. Death is something that interests us, among myriad things that interest us. Like making stuff, or gardening, or cooking, or hanging with pets.
I don’t know if KD would have ever considered me a friend, or a mentor, or as even as someone to trade healthy recipes with, but I certainly regret the fact that I’ll never have the chance to find out. And I mourn for her family and friends.