‘Nothing makes a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it.’ And, ‘You can decorate absence however you want — but you’re still gonna feel what’s missing.’ Two quotes, the first from author Calla Quinn, the second from another writer, Siobhan Vivian. The thread connecting each is obvious: a missing person.

As humans, some of us will have experienced, or will experience, the terrible emptiness when someone goes missing.

An incredible statistic from the National Missing Persons Coordination Centre reveals that 38,000 people are reported missing each year! On an average, more than 3,000 per month. One can appreciate the pressure it must put on police bureaus around the country and while it is comforting to know also that most of those initially reported missing are found relatively soon thereafter, it can never sit comfortably knowing that 1,600 of those are still listed under ‘long term missing’.

It is these, who have been long time gone, that the two quotes above attach themselves to with far greater poignancy because the hope of them ever returning to ‘reclaim’ the space they left behind dwindles with each passing day and hope, often symbolised as a flame, begins to flutter and dance about, buffeted by the winds of anxiety until it is reduced to a fragile pinprick of blueness that can be snuffed out at any given moment.

Unless one has had a similar experience of losing a loved one ‘long term’, the resultant hardships on those left behind are often hard to imagine. In most instances, in the absence of a body, the authorities will not issue a death certificate. And without a valid death certificate, it is sometimes next to impossible for those left behind to ‘put the past behind’ or ‘help close a chapter’. These administrative and bureaucratic hurdles do nothing except give grief further incentive. Wounds such as these that people often say should be left to time (the healer), are often not allowed to heal because time itself doesn’t appear to be part of the healing process. In fact, it is time that aids and abets in keeping the wounds raw because, without a death certificate, a bank account for example cannot be closed; financial situations cannot be resolved.

In one instance, a man who’d gone missing for ten years then lost both his parents, both dying of natural causes. But the inheritance left behind by the parents lies unclaimed, with reminders being posted to the man’s wife every quarter or so. In another instance, another male who’d been on the missing persons list for six years also happened to be a member of a prestigious club. The club allegedly refused to close or discontinue his membership without any concrete evidence that he’d either passed away or was incapable of paying his dues. This then fell to the family to meet, a financial burden they could have done without, especially when trying to cope with grief.

Tax offices, insurance companies all tend to approach this similarly. As much as one loves and cherishes someone; as dearly as one tends to hold one’s memory after one has gone; as empty as the room may seem without the person around any longer, the question is how long does it take before the weight of sorrow becomes a burden that must be borne for eternity?

A follow-up question: Is it fair that those left behind be left to carry a millstone, through little or no fault of their own? There are those that will argue that everything is carried out within a legal framework. Laws are known to be rigid and frameworks, likewise, true. But such frameworks, drawn up by humans, ought to be structured with a modicum of ‘human manoeuvrability’ in mind. Especially in this instance.

(And after holding forth eloquently on behalf of those left behind, my mate Barney, normally known as an outrageous prankster, sits back and for once in sober mood, takes the first sip from his long-cooled cup of coffee.)

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.