I am terrible at goodbyes.
Gangbusters with “hello’s” but “goodbyes” hurt too much. At the handful of funerals I have attended, I refuse to look at the human mannequin on display in the thousand-dollar casket as woeful hymns and the smell of fresh flowers permeate everything.
I prefer to think of the living person and recall and relive with absolute eidetic imagery, the details of the stories that make me smile every time.
As I inch closer to my own last grain of sand in the hourglass, I have a romantic notion of how I will silently, and happily transition to Whatever Comes Next.
Of course, I would hope that if God decides to take one of us first, please let it be me. On reflection, that is a very selfish notion , but my intent is purely directed by unconditional love.
I can’t fathom being left alone, and it would surely be a life sentence.
I know I’d be crying all the time, and I would probably get back into my writing for sure.
The thought of re-marrying sounds as ludicrous as it felt typing it.
Not an option.
I just can’t imagine seeing the light in someone else’s eyes like my girl.
Anymore, the dangers of merely existing on this planet have become untenable, and so many are leaving The Carnival of Life before the ride is over.
Heartbreaking.
It sounds so corny, but I don’t care.
Hug each other a little tighter and with more emotion because we truly have no idea when.
It takes a different breed of cat to work on the dead. This profession bordered on the mystical in Pharoah’s times. The practitioners were highly revered for their proximity to Gods and spirits and held a high celebrity status.
The only girl I know who is a mortician is one of the craziest people on the planet.
I mean, I think she is out there.
But she loves what she does and is motivated to give people dignity as they pass, and families a gentle transition.
Speaking of amoral perverse freaks, how about people who go to work at mortuaries with more nefarious intentions?
Can’t even imagine, although I have been with a few docile individuals that could have used a little kickstart, if you will.
But that is sick.
A list of some of the Great Goodbyes in cinematic history would surely have to include Casablanca (“Here’s looking at you, kid.”), little Tommy Kirk’s face filled with tears, as he had to shoot his beloved dog Old Yeller who had contracted hydrophobia, or rabies (“Yes Mama. But he was my dog. I’ll do it.”), and lest we forget, the all-time cryfest when Debra Winger says a final goodbye to her two sons in Terms of Endearment. As her youngest boy turns to leave, she looks at him with all the love in a dying mother’s eyes, and says, ”I think that went pretty well, don’t you?”
Not a dry eye in the house.
Stay well.
Mark's Playhouse 