My friend and I visited his grave yesterday. He has made his plans and arranged for his disposition when he comes to his inevitable end. As we stood in the gentle breezes of the spring morning, we thought very deeply about our mortality. This is where we all end up, regardless of our efforts and accomplishments. No one, after a while, is really remembered. We join the ranks of the billions of out species who have ever lived or died.
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Thunder rocks the house, a welcome feeling. A tension has built inside after the dim months of a Midwestern winter. The relief is like the song of the robin. The gods have had mercy on us poor sinners. Spring has arrived. What was skeletal and gray will soon turn green, the kind of green that aches the eyes and soothes the soul.
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The fall that brought me to this point happened on a terrace between two houses. It was a calm and moderate November day. Walking along, piking the mail, my feet suddenly slipped out from under me. I reached back with my right arm to catch myself, heard and felt a rip in my shoulder. Landing almost flat on my back, I regarded the clouds above me for a second. I had no idea what I was in for.
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The last few weeks I’ve been living the life I want to lead in retirement. Every day, I get up before everyone else to write and get the mechanism primed for the day ahead. Then, the phone takes my attention for a while before I go into the bedroom to read and fall asleep for the necessary and irreplaceable nap. After that, the day is mine for more reading, walking the dog, and thinking about the next day’s writing.
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When I hear people griping about the media, I hang my head and sign. The complaint makes no sense, particularly because those most loud about media faults are those who don’t question the capitalist marketplace in which media exist.
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