In Loving Memory of Toom Montana

My friend died suddenly.

Even writing that sentence is difficult. My mind keeps returning to it, as if thinking about the news long enough might help me understand it. I keep thinking about him, about his children, and about all the things I wish I could do. I wish I could be there with the people who loved him. I wish I could attend his funeral, say goodbye in person, and share the weight of this loss with those who knew him.

But I live on the opposite side of the world. The funeral is only days away. So I’m here, far from the place where people will gather to remember him, and trying to find a way to honor a life that mattered deeply to me.

I know I’m not the only person who has had to grieve from a distance. Sometimes the people we love die far away. Sometimes the practical barriers are too great: distance, money, work, health, family responsibilities, or the timing of the news. We can be heartbroken and still unable to get on a plane. We can love someone deeply and still be absent from their funeral.

That absence hurts. It does not mean the love was absent.

A teacher in the fullest sense

My friend was a teacher. He helped so many of his students grow into thoughtful, capable people who could contribute to society. Teaching, at its best, is more than explaining a subject or preparing someone for an exam. It is seeing potential in another person, offering guidance, and helping them discover what they can become.

That is what he did.

His influence lives in the students he encouraged, the lessons they carry forward, and the people they have become. A teacher’s work does not end when the class is over. It continues in the choices former students make, in the care they show others, and in the ways they pass knowledge and kindness along.

He also carried that spirit into his family. He raised his children to understand the heart of teaching: guiding, supporting, and helping others grow. His son is now a teacher assistant. He is still a teenager, and I can only imagine how proud his father must be, not just of the role he has taken on, but of the values behind it. His son is already following a path shaped by the lessons he learned at home.

Thinking about his children brings both tenderness and pain. They have lost their father, and I wish I could ease even a little of what they are facing. I can’t know what their grief will look like as they grow, and I can’t make this loss right. I can remember their father, speak of the good he brought into the world, and honor the guidance he gave them.

Grieving from far away

When you can’t attend a funeral, it can feel as though you’ve been shut out of a moment everyone else gets to share. You may imagine the gathering, the stories being told, the people standing together, and feel the ache of not being there. You may wonder whether you are saying goodbye properly, or whether your grief counts as much when it happens at a distance.

It does.

A funeral can offer a shared place and time to remember someone. But it is not the measure of a friendship, and it is not the only possible goodbye. You can grieve without being in the room. You can honor someone without standing beside their grave. You can carry your love and memories across any distance.

I am reminding myself that not being able to be there is not a choice against my friend. It is a real limit. I can wish things were different without blaming myself for what I cannot change.

If you are also unable to attend a funeral, perhaps you need to hear this: your absence does not erase your care. The miles do not undo the years, conversations, laughter, kindness, or memories you shared. You are allowed to mourn from where you are.

Finding a way to remember

I may not be able to stand with everyone at the funeral, but I can make a quiet space to remember him. I can write down a story I don’t want to forget. I can reach out to someone who knew him and share what he meant to me. I can pause when the service is taking place, light a candle, or simply sit with the memories.

There is no single right ritual. It does not need to be elaborate or public. It only needs to feel honest.

Maybe you will write a letter to the person who died. Maybe you will revisit a place you shared, listen to a song that brings them close, or tell someone a story about them. Maybe you will do none of those things right away. Grief does not follow a schedule, and remembering can happen in small moments you never planned.

For me, writing is one way to honor my friend. I want to remember not only that he died, but how he lived: as a teacher, a guide, a father, and a person whose influence reached far beyond himself.

When grief keeps returning

Since hearing the news, I have found it difficult to think about much else. My mind returns to his death and to his children. I don’t have a neat answer for how to make that stop. Maybe the first step is not to force myself to stop thinking about him, but to let the grief be there without asking myself to solve everything at once.

If you are grieving too, you might try giving yourself permission to do less for a while. You don’t have to write beautifully, feel grateful, find a lesson, or make your grief useful. You can miss someone. You can feel stunned, sad, angry, numb, or all of those things at different times. You can take the next small step, a glass of water, a message to someone you trust, a little rest, without expecting yourself to know how the whole journey will unfold.

And if the grief feels too heavy to carry alone, reach toward someone safe: a friend, family member, counselor, faith or community leader, or grief-support group. Asking for company does not mean you are failing to cope. It means you deserve support while you are hurting.

What remains

I cannot change the fact that my friend is gone. I cannot be there for the funeral. I cannot take away the loss his children are facing.

But I can remember him. I can speak about the students he helped and the values he passed on to his children. I can honor the teacher he was by recognizing the lives he helped shape. I can let his example remind me that teaching and guiding are acts of care, and that the effects of those acts can continue long after a person is gone.

His life mattered. His work mattered. His love for his children mattered. The people he taught and encouraged carry something of him forward.

I am grieving him from far away, but I am not remembering him from far away. I carry his friendship with me. I will carry the good he gave to others, too.

If you are grieving someone you cannot reach, someone whose funeral you cannot attend, or someone whose loss still feels impossible to understand, I hope you will be gentle with yourself. Your love is not measured by the distance you traveled or the ceremony you attended. Sometimes honoring someone begins with a memory, a story, or the quiet words: You mattered to me, and I will remember you.

⋅ॱ ི☘︎ ྀ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ ི☘︎ ྀ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ ི☘︎ ྀ

In Loving Memory of Toom Montana