An Ode to Virtue
“Before tragedy, we have a million dreams, and after, there is only one.”
There is something cruel about ordinary days.
They never announce themselves as the last.
The last greeting.
The last laugh.
The last meeting.
The last phone call.
The last “See you tomorrow.”
They arrive disguised as routine, wrapped in familiarity, and before we know it, they have quietly become memories.
Perhaps that is why tragedy wounds us so deeply. It does not only take people from us; it steals the version of tomorrow we had already imagined.
Before tragedy, we dream endlessly.
We dream of promotions and possibilities, of weddings yet to be celebrated, children yet to be raised, businesses yet to be built, places yet to be explored. We postpone conversations because we assume there will always be another lunch break, another Monday morning, another chance to say what sits quietly in our hearts.
We believe time is patient.
Until it isn’t.
Then comes that phone call.
That message.
That silence.
And in a single moment, a thousand ambitions collapse into one desperate prayer:
“Please… let this not be true.”
Today, our hearts carry that prayer for one of our own, Virtue.
A name that now feels heavier than it did yesterday.
Not because Virtue has changed, but because loss has a way of teaching us the true weight of a person’s presence only after their absence has entered the room.
It is strange how someone can be part of the background of our daily lives until one day their chair is empty, their laughter is missing, and the silence they leave behind becomes louder than any voice.
We spend so much of life measuring people by what they do.
Their role.
Their title.
Their output.
But grief reminds us that people are never remembered because of what they produced.
They are remembered because of how they made us feel.
The kindness they offered without announcing it.
The smile they gave on difficult days.
The encouragement that arrived exactly when it was needed.
The quiet consistency that became part of the rhythm of everyone else’s life.
These are the things that outlive us.
Perhaps this is the greatest deception of life: we think we have time.
Time to apologise.
Time to forgive.
Time to visit.
Time to call.
Time to say, “I appreciate you.”
Time to love people loudly.
Until time quietly reminds us that it never belonged to us.
There is a Yoruba saying that has survived generations because it understands the human condition:
‘Ikú ò pa ẹni l’ọjọ́ kan; ó máa ń ránṣẹ́ sí wa ní gbogbo ọjọ́.’
Death rarely begins the day it arrives. It sends us reminders every day, in grey hairs, in fading strength, in changing seasons, and in the stories of those who leave before us. Yet we live as though we are exempt from the lesson.
Maybe that is why Solomon wrote,
“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” Psalm 90:12
Not to count our days in fear.
But to live them in gratitude.
To understand that every shared meal is a gift.
Every conversation is borrowed time.
Every embrace is sacred.
Every ordinary day is, in fact, extraordinary.
And though our hearts are heavy, hope still whispers.
The Scriptures tell us:
“For there is hope for a tree, if it is cut down, that it will sprout again.” Job 14:7
That hope may not erase the ache we feel today, but it reminds us that death does not have the final word. Love does not perish with the body. The influence of a good life does not end at the grave.
Virtue’s story does not end with the day we lost her.
It continues in every life she touched.
In every lesson she unknowingly taught.
In every act of kindness that someone else will now choose because they once experienced it from her.
Perhaps that is how we honour those we lose not merely by mourning their absence, but by becoming living extensions of the goodness they left behind.
So today, we grieve.
We remember.
We give thanks.
And we make ourselves a quiet promise.
To stop waiting for special occasions before telling people they matter.
To stop postponing love.
To stop assuming tomorrow is guaranteed.
Because before tragedy, we have a million dreams.
After tragedy, we discover that the greatest blessing was never the dreams themselves.
It was the people with whom we dreamed.
Rest well, Virtue.
You have reminded us far more powerfully than words ever could that life is a gift, love is our greatest work, and the ordinary moments we rush through are often the holiest ones we will ever know.
