For all her shrill tirades and hysterical meltdowns this season, if we had any doubt that Ruth is taking the hard path, the contrast between Ruth and Brenda's mother makes it clear: While Margaret stoops to competitive behavior and snotty outbursts, Ruth shrugs her shoulders and tries to be expansive for her own sake and for the sake of those she cares about, even in the face of such a devastating loss.

David (Michael C. Hall) has always been wound a little tight, just like his mother, Ruth. But he's also sharp and efficient and loving and bighearted and good-humored and courageous in the face of big life risks. David hasn't been as courageous, however, in the face of the fears he keeps swallowing down and trying to block out of his mind -- fear of his own mortality, fear of being a bad parent, fear of his traumatic attack. When Keith kicks him out of the house for the benefit of the kids, David is left alone to face his fears, to look death in the face, and to decide how he wants to spend the balance of his days. Strangely, instead of moving on to a whole new life, David and Keith decide to keep the family business going, to buy out Rico and Brenda and raise their kids in the house where David grew up. It's fitting, really, since David's adherence to a strict schedule and work ethic may have always pointed to a deeply sentimental desire to honor his father's legacy. Restored to his family, David says a prayer before dinner that reflects just how much he and Keith have grown over the years, thanking God for "the love we feel for each other, even when it's hard -- especially when it's hard. And finally for these two boys who came into our lives and made us a family, and who have given us a home every bit as much as we have them." The look on Durrell's face as he decides that the toast isn't cheesy at all, and says Amen with some conviction, provides one of the most touching and memorable moments in a finale filled with such moments.

Nate (Peter Krause) exited at a messy time in his life, and because of that, he'll be remembered for one of his worst decisions: dumping his pregnant wife from a hospital bed for Maggie, a woman he barely knew but to whom he ascribed a goodness she might've had a hard time living up to. As a character, Nate served as a conduit for viewers' emotions about responsibility and marriage, and the struggle between giving to others and doing what's right for yourself. Nate always found himself marching down paths that didn't suit him, and then backing up and blaming those around him for where he wound up. But Nate was also, as George announced at Nate's disturbingly realistic memorial service, an idealist. He embraced notions of what was right and wrong in spite of all the impracticalities surrounding those notions. Nate was anything but a pragmatist. Ultimately, though, at a family dinner where, for once, not one member of the family is absent, Nate's family remembers him for his admirable qualities -- his ability to express himself, to go out on a limb, to take himself seriously, to strive for a romantic life. Galvanized by his death, they sit at the table, face each other, and honor him. The only shame is that Nate couldn't be there to witness a moment that basically wasn't possible until he died.

Claire (Lauren Ambrose) personifies the confusion and ambivalence of youth, and her mixed-up feelings about her family, herself, her art, her lovers, her future look familiar to anyone who struggled to find their footing in early adulthood. It makes sense, then, that the show would end with her driving across the country to move to New York City, without a job, without any idea where she'll live, without any friends. For all of her vanity and her self-importance and immature notions about what's important in the world, Claire always had the most courage of any of the Fishers, and to see her set out into the unknown, without any guarantee of a future, armed with nothing but her talents and her sensitivity and her recurring bouts of optimism in the face of a deeply cynical world seems like a true beginning.

And, through the final series of flash-forwards, which range from comical to sad to stunning, we experience Claire's imagination, her best guess of what the future might hold for herself and her family and friends. Whether any of these people seem happy or sad in the end, they will all end up dead. In any other context, this might seem a devastating final message, but in the context of "Six Feet Under," we're forced to accept the inevitability of their death and our own death and the death of everyone we know, and it all seems designed, oddly enough, to free us from our fear and apprehension about the future. We're each left with a bracing, memorable snapshot of what lies behind us and ahead of us, cementing the span of our life and our inevitable death into the continuum of human history.

If that sounds impossibly big and heartbreaking for one little TV show, that's because it is. But Alan Ball's drama series has always reached past expectations, raising the bar and giving us TV that feels like great art, as it shakes us by the shoulders and kicks us in the ass and digs up our greatest losses and deepest wells of sadness and points us to a brighter, more loving, more expansive future. Through this lens, we're shown a world that can be disappointing and confusing and mundane, sure -- but also breathtakingly lovely, even in its flaws, even at our darkest moments.

"Six Feet Under" presents us with an ambiguous universe, but its message isn't the least bit ambiguous: You have one life, one very short life, to enjoy, to embrace, to dive in, to try new things, to see the world, to love someone dear, to appreciate the little things. Or, as Nate might say, you have one life to live. Don't fuck it up.

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