"Maybe we should develop a Crayola bomb as our next secret weapon. A happiness weapon. A beauty bomb. And every time a crisis developed, we would launch one. It would explode high in the air — explode softly — and send thousands, millions, of little parachutes into the air. Floating down to earth — boxes of Crayolas. And we wouldn't go cheap, either — not little boxes of eight. Boxes of sixty-four, with the sharpener built right in. With silver and gold and copper, magenta and peach and lime, amber and umber and all the rest. And people would smile and get a little funny look on their faces and cover the world with imagination." Robert Fulghum
Thank you Mr. Fulghum for that wonderful thought. I'm almost smiling.
Almost.
I know, another grumpy non-cake post by a blue man who doesn't care about
facebook. How could that possibly be worth your time? Should I worry about
my ratings? It's just that every now and then I'm completely sobered up by
images of the inevitable — the one and only thing in life that I'm truly afraid
of, the only thing on this beautiful planet of ours that keeps me alive too.
You see, I'm scared of dying. Maybe scared isn't the right
word. I'm plain terrified. The thought of one day not being able to
talk to all of you makes it impossible for me to fall asleep. I've not been
sleeping too well lately. Maybe it's just me. Maybe you're so much braver than
I am.
There she is: Granny, smiling at me, that sweet, sweet woman, even though every
fiber in her body tells her she's bound to be dead come tomorrow. "Angie,
promise me you will look after him. You have to promise me, Dear.""I
promise, Grandma." I heard those words loud and clear but not a single one
of them registered that day at the hospital. Twelve hours later they did and I
never felt more betrayed.
There he is: my stepfather. "Where's Randy?" "I'm here." I
kissed him on his forehead and he looked at me with watery eyes, eyes that
seemed to wonder who I was, a total stranger who, for some unfathomable reason,
cared about what was happening to him. "I'm finished," he said. "Finished."
I would never see him again. If I were more sensitive, I'd be crying now.
There she will be: my Momma. Sweet, sweet Momma, walking toward that inevitable
cliff we're all walking toward but don't really want to be reminded of —
Momma's getting older, getting weaker, caring less about the uselessness of
human egos, human error in general or herself. She only cares about her two
children, her grandchildren and the few people who love her. There she will be.
It's a sobering thought that she will turn 65 in October. I know, 65... she's
still young. I remember when she was 32, though. Do you want to be 65 right now
and listen to people telling you you're "still very young"? How would
you feel knowing you may have two decades left in you, statistically speaking?
Two decades... max? I will miss her and I will hate the world. Maybe not
forever, but for a while. I will curse the day I was born and swear to my
heart's content. Then I will move on. I will have to move on. People expect you
to move on. On your feet, soldier. Stop whining. Wasting your time
thinking about dying is a foolish thing to do. You know, the important
stuff.
Maybe I'll be dead first. You never know. I almost was. I still could be. The
world will move on and Blue won't be able to remember himself or you. Just the
thought of being forgotten together with those who remembered me makes me want
to go on Facebook. We all want a witness. Facebook Beyond the Grave entry
#1: There I was. I'm sorry I didn't know you.
Are you scared?
* * *
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