While it’s okay to talk about trivial matters—food, beer, and what restaurants we like; songs and bands; maybe why Tom Brady is better than Ben Roethlisberger—some argue, we mustn’t discuss the weightier issues confronting us—like death and the attendant fall-out from grief and loss.

There was a tacit understanding when I was coming up that certain topics were notably off-limits in mixed company—the old adage, always refrain from “politics and religion.”

Apparently that’s not the case any longer. Political thoughts are offered with little regard to how well-framed and supported they are by logic or fact. Then, there is no shortage of those ready to offer (inflict?) prayers on your behalf (even if they never seem to be “answered”). So, the old taboos no longer apply—unless it’s talking about death and the subsequent way it affects the lives of those left behind. At least that’s how it seems to me, more than a year out from the event that changed the lives of Mary and me.

A few weeks ago, I heard a track on Jeffrey Davison’s Saturday morning “Shrunken Planet” program on WFMU. It was by a band listed on the playlist as Bipolar Explorer. Something about the song, “Lost Life,” was evocative and then Davison mentioned how the album where he pulled the cut from, was a reflection on the death of their singer, Summer Serafin.

The band has the requisite page on Bandcamp and they’re on Wikipedia. I found additional information about them and Summer. She was a beautiful and talented actress who died all-too-young. Her band mate and love of her life, Michael, has soldiered on, making music that recognizes how grief and loss leaves those who loved the person who is gone, forever affected (and afflicted). It’s about death and what follows for those left behind, yet, I don’t find the music of Bipolar Explorer morbid, or in any way, shape, or form. In fact, I ordered “Sometimes in Dreams,” and it is a haunting and profound exploration of lost love in musical form.

As I ponder the belief held by some people who take issue with public displays of grief, I’ve come to believe that holding this position mostly means you’ve never been left feeling bereft and out of sorts after having a hole opened up in the middle of your life you’ve been living after losing someone special. Or, lurking on the periphery, clinging to a heroic stoicism. Existential ruminations always work much better when conducted at a safe distance. You also might be under the mistaken belief (having been taught, wrongly) that you’re supposed to suffer in silence.

Phil Elverum lost his wife when he was 36. It will be two years in July. She died of pancreatic cancer. Elverum is a singer-songwriter who played out as the Microphones, and now records under the moniker of Mount Eerie.

Geneviéve Castrée was a well-regarded comics artist. Later, after marrying Elverum, she began releasing music under the name, Woelv. Her works have been published by Drawn & Quarterly.

He’s written and recorded two records post-loss. The first one, A Crow Looked At Me, was begun two months after Geneviève died. Some might call many of the songs, stark. Stark is a great term in the abstract. It feels different when it’s hitting you in the head and in the gut, while rending your heart, leaving it in pieces.

Comedian/writer/podcaster Marc Maron interviewed Elverum in 2017. It’s brutally honest (from both ends, interviewer/interviewee), which is why I found it meaningful. Perhaps you will, also.

Michael Serafin-Wells continues with Bipolar Explorer, as well as blogging about his love, Summer. He hasn’t “moved on,” whatever the fuck that means. Just like Phil Elverum hasn’t forgotten someone he’d known for 13 years, then lost her.

Mary and I had Mark for 33 years. Over the last 12 years of his life, we rarely saw him daily, save for the times he came home for an extended visit, or we drove down to Providence for a weekend. But when we did spend time in his presence, it was an occasion to savor and now, cling to those memories, holding them tightly. You don’t just stuff those years into a box in the basement, like you do with personal effects. No, we’ll continue to be affected for years, yea, for the rest of our lives.