He resides quietly now, my life long best friend, on a small parcel perfectly suited for his needs, the large tree in his backyard giving him comfort and shade. It's a nice spot, on a corner, facing south to catch the winter sun. Curiously, it is almost exactly 200 yards from the house where he grew up. Standing in one place, you can almost see the other. Seventy one years - 200 yards. The circle of life. So short a time, so small the distance. And yet, the circle was large, and full.
The address, formally, is 2401 Court St., Syracuse, NY 13208. Assumption Cemetery. Home to thousands like him - each, like him, with their own story.
He didn't want to die. He was cetainly not planning on it. Religious as he was, he did not foresee it. I talked with him the evening before, and he made no mention of it being his last night on earth. We talked of other things, things that embraced the future, things he was going to have to do, decisions he would have to make - all things that spoke to next week, next month, next year.
The following morning, I called again. No answer. No worries, he was probably off to the doctor's office by himself. Afternoon came and still no answer. His sister and her husband, worried now, went to his house. I joined them. I had a key to his front door. His brother-in-law and I entered, calling out, searching, praying, dreading. Then, there he was, waiting for us, dead on his kitchen floor. No person should ever have to experience that moment. He was there, but he wasn't. He was more mannequin than person. Sixteen hours previous, he spoke, he thought, he breathed. Now, those elements that made him human were all gone. We could just stare at what used to be him, and in vain, try to comprehend.
He taught us lessons in his life of course. Most people do, to one extent or another. Different lives, different lessons. But one stands universal, and so impossibly difficult to grasp. It involves the essence of life - the absolute certainty of its fragile nature. Understandable. No one wants to think of life ending. We don't start conversations by talking about death. It isn't the main topic at the dinner table. Even faced with old age and infirmities that will one day claim us all, we avoid, except for light barbs of "gallows" humor, any reference to our temporary status on the planet.
We should, of course, plan for the future, but we should never count on it. The raw reality is this. There is no tomorrow. Only today. Only now. But we continue to travel our days, thinking of tomorrows, and next weeks, months, even years, as if we had a secret guarantee that we would be there to greet them. Armed with this perceived certainty, we famously, humanly, convince ourselves that we will "get to it" tomorrow, or next week, or month, or year. Whatever the topic, or issue, whatever the things are that we have to do, or say, there will always be tomorrow. So many kinds of waiting.
One such kind involves the people in our life. At our core, we are social animals, and so much of our happiness and fulfillment depends on our human relationships. Yet we seldom take time to honor those who enrich our lives, on whatever level. Seldom, hell, we might as well say never.
It's only when someone dies that we tend to find this hidden in our subconscious and with good intentions, vow to reach out, call, write, text, visit - whatever - those special people in our life. Be they parent, child, sibling, relative, mate, friend, or significant other, we promise that we'll tell them how, and why, and just how much. Tomorrow. For sure. Promise.
Can we finally learn a lesson, just this one lesson? I'll wager not.
Mark Twain Quote: "People ought to start dead and then they would be honest so much earlier."
