When his house caught fire, he was asleep, dreaming of his kids and the wife he’s losing in a divorce. It was only the call of his roommate’s overnight guest that roused him. He had just enough time to grab his pants and tumble down the stairs. The air had transformed from life-sustaining into a viscous mixture of paper-and-plastic miasma, the acrid smoke burning his lungs.
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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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