Prairie Vole

So there are these Prairie Voles, tiny little rodents, that are known to mate for life. They share such an intense bond for their first mate. So much so that when death arrives for their partner, they often lie next to its body, nudging it forward and back hoping to wake it up. However that moment never arrives, and by the time the rodent understands this, it is too weak to fend for itself. Ultimately dying there next to what it cared for most in its life.

People hear that and praise it. Calling it beautiful. And it is, in a cruel way.

On one hand it's an amazing metaphor about love that abides “till death do us part”, but on the other hand it's a story that resonates the idea that some things are meant to be. Without them you’re not yourself. Not in your entirety at least.

Wouldn’t you want to go up to the prairie vole in your warm embrace and whisper in its ear. “Don’t you forget, that in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill themself.” A poor attempt to consolidate the little thing.

I’ve heard that, in varying forms, more times than I can remember. And it's true. Somewhat. Living takes courage, to truly live means to let any and all experiences flow through you; after which you can pick and choose what you carry on with you during your journey.

But what they’ll never mention is the immense exhaustion of living whilst carrying years of weight inside you. To speak normally to others when you can’t to yourself. Suicide is rarely born in one moment. Years of grief, isolation, or longing can paralyse you. By the time the thought first arrives, that person has already been dying quietly for a long time. So no, living does not require more courage. To be dead alongside the living does.

In justifying this, some people like to contrast the idea of grief and hope. That hope overcomes grief in every manner. And that hope is a salvation to all. Hope is what can help get rid of the feeling you hate.

I disagree.

Grief can be honest. It kneels beside you and tells you “this mattered”. Grief asks nothing but for you to acknowledge that. There is a mercy in that.

Hope is much crueler.

Hope keeps the door half open, it keeps the dead breathing in your imagination. It whispers that relief will come, but it never does. It can consume you across years.

Of all the prisons I’ve known, grief was the kindest.

Hope, however, kept me alive long enough to feel every bar of the cage.

And in the end, I think that is why I understand the prairie vole.

Because, for a while, it was forced to live after discovering that love alone could no longer bring anything back.