There comes a point in time when you look around and realize you are no longer surprised to discover that someone you know has passed away. I mean, when you're 15 and one of your peers dies, it's shocking. But as you move closer and closer to 40, it becomes a thing. I'm certain it will become more of a thing as more time passes.

As it is, it's still a little surprising when I discover that a co-worker or former classmate or whoever is gone. Even if I hadn't stayed in touch or ever been close, there's still a moment or ten of grieving. Life's too short, and reminders are harsh.

I chalked it up to that. I chalked the lingering thoughts up to the harshness of discovering that someone I'd known since second grade was gone. I mean, he was a little bit younger than me. He was definitely smarter than me. It's harsh to discover that someone you once knew fairly well is gone.

But that wasn't it.

It took four or five readings of his obituary for me to figure out what it was that was really bothering me. His obituary, a fantastic remembrance of who he was, was ... hollow. It was a list of academic and professional accomplishments. Each and every one of them was impressive on their own, but combined they painted the story of a person who had fully dedicated his life to excellence.

Academic excellence.

Professional excellence.

But that was it. There was no mention of the people. There were nice words from coworkers, but they were the words of people who didn't really KNOW him. They weren't touched by him. They may have been inspired professionally and genuinely enjoyed his company, but ... hollow.

So much of his obituary is hollow.

That. That right there is something to fear. It's not death itself that is harsh. The truly frightening thing is not leaving something meaningful behind.