Death is not the end

For those who still remember

Oct 30, 2025

I have this video of Dad. I filmed it three years ago, when we knew he was dying but not when. The video shows him sitting at his desk in the master bedroom, painting a grey cat from a picture on his phone. He says nothing. All you hear is his music blaring, the background to the one activity he still enjoyed.

The video is 16 seconds long. And even as I shot it, I knew one day I’d be watching it, over and over, and it would be the only way to see his hand move, his head flicker towards the phone screen, turning for a fresh dab of grey.

Death is not the end

Years before Dad died, I’d asked my partner, fearful of what’s coming: Is death the end? He said he didn’t think so, but at the time I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t imagine how death might not be final, how the person could live on after they were gone.

But he was right. Death is not the end.

I first glimpsed the truth of this after a death in the family that preceded Dad’s. I could see—in the grieving of those left behind—memories shared, laughter, do you remember how he used to? I could see how death had immortalised life, how the deceased had stayed alive in my own memory. That time he walked in when I was taking a bath because I hadn’t locked the door properly. When he smiled and asked how I’d slept when I came down in the mornings, replying when I returned the question, good thank you. That one conversation where he opened up and shared more of himself than he ever had.

That death was not the end. Then, six months later, Dad died. And his was not the end either.

Dad has passed, Mum messaged just as my partner and I were getting ready for bed halfway across the world in London. I wasn’t surprised. To be honest I was relieved. Dad’s gone, I told my partner. Oh no, he said, are you OK? I nodded. I’m glad he’s no longer in pain.

The next morning, I woke up to a flurry of funeral arrangements. In Bangkok, everything was being finalised. I called Mum to find out how she was, sent my aunt a photo I’d prepared of Dad—smiling, as he’d requested—to use for the funeral, asked Dad’s brother to hold off on the ash scattering so I could give Dad the send-off in his hometown he would have wanted. And then there was nothing to do but continue with our day. So we did, and that evening went to the Santana concert I’d got us front-row tickets for to celebrate getting a raise.

At the concert, I sang along to the songs Dad had introduced me to growing up. I cried when Carlos performed the song Dad had sent me a video of when I’d told him about the show months earlier. I thought how Dad would have loved this, what a shame he never got to experience it, I hoped somewhere he knows I’m there for the both of us.

It’s almost six months later, and I still think of Dad most days. We have one of his watercolour paintings in our Ho Chi Minh City apartment, one he did of my partner which I really like but my partner says makes him look odd. Sometimes I go into the office to look at it and cry. Other times I go on my phone and look at all the pictures I have of Dad and cry. And when I’m not doing those two things I write about Dad in my newsletter and cry (I’m crying now). And then there’s the guided meditation the other day when the meditator said imagine if everything was perfect in this moment, if nothing is missing, and I thought my dad is missing and cried.

So I’d be lying if I said death wasn’t final. It feels final. He feels gone.

But it’s not the end. Because every day, I remember him. I remember his voice, the things he said, the way he smiled, his laugh, even his tears. I remember the way he looked, the way he walked, the way he hugged me close and said “I wish you only happiness” every time I left those last few years. When I feel stressed at work, I remember how he sends heart emojis when I tell him I’m resting after a long day. When I’m feeling lazy, I remember how he always says not to slack off or Mark will fire me, which when I finally met Mark in person the day before Dad died and told him, Mark burst out laughing. And I laughed too. Because it is a ridiculous fear, but to Dad it was real. And I remember it, and I remember him, and I’ll never, ever forget.

What do you think?

How do you remember the people you lost?

How do your dead live on? Is it in the memories, the kindness, the quirks? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone who still remembers.

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