عربي 
EN 
By: Dr. Adnan Bozan
Loss has never been anything but a bell tolling deep within, reminding us how exposed we are before the might of absence, how powerless we are to keep those who were once our very existence—only to leave without looking back.
At the last condolence, when the gathering disperses, when weary feet retreat from the doorstep, silence remains the sole master of the place. It sits in the corner the departed once occupied, gazing at you with unseen eyes, as if asking: How will you continue the journey now that you are alone?
Oh, if only loss could be understood!
But it cannot be explained, nor shaped into words. It is a pain that grows like a barren tree in the heart, its roots stretching deep, its branches swaying with every new day, as if to remind you that life will never be the same again—that from now on, everything will bear the shadow of the absent.
At the last condolence, when the rugs are rolled up, and the chairs are put away, the scent of coffee lingers in the air—a silent witness to those who came, spoke, wept, and then left to resume their lives as if nothing had happened. Only you will remain, within walls that echo your sighs, before an empty seat, at a table that no longer feels whole, and before a door that will never again open to a familiar face.
How does memory become a curse?
It spares no one. It digs through everything, reviving the sound of their laughter filling the house, the tone of their voice calling your name, even the footsteps whose rhythm you once knew by heart. It comes back to you in the dead of night, waking you from sleep, only to make you realize that wakefulness is more painful than dreaming.
At the last condolence, the words of comfort fade, sympathy withers like the flowers left upon the grave, and grief remains solely within you. No one sees it, no one feels its ripples in your chest, no one understands that losing loved ones is not a moment that passes but a lifetime condensed into a painful memory—one that takes from you, little by little, until all that remains is a shadow walking through streets that were once alive.
Is this what life becomes after condolence?
To go on carrying the faces of the departed upon our own, hiding our pain in the noise of the days, smiling while our souls bend inward—to become, ourselves, a condolence that stretches for an entire lifetime?
How difficult it is when the last condolence marks the beginning of the end—when everyone departs, yet death lingers. Not just in graves, but in conversations left unfinished, in places once pulsing with their presence, in joyless celebrations, in long, sleepless nights.> Perhaps we will never grow accustomed to absence, but it will grow accustomed to us. It will sit beside us each evening, become a part of us, until one day we, too, are gone—leaving behind another final condolence in the lives of those who loved us, becoming another empty chair, another heavy heart, in another life... that moves forward despite all the loss.