Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Death Gets On My Nerves

One of my community neighbors died on Saturday. I read his obituary in today's paper. Rats!

I will miss him. We were at the vacuum cleaner repair shop the last time I saw him and began laughing about stuff. He had great sparkle and loved women (in the best way, not the creepy way).

It gets on my nerves that death means you can't call a person up, run into them at the grocery or see them at the Yacht Club.

Death comes and that's it. I hate it.

People who make my world more interesting or charming or happier, then die, make my world dimmer.

Why didn't I call them up to chat or go see them or make dinner plans with them? Why?

Because I thought I had time. I thought I'd see them again.

I forgot that all human relationships have an end.

Don't tell me that I can talk with them in my dreams or imagine a conversation with them.
I know this. But, Geez Louise!, this isn't the same.

Don't tell me that now is the time to tell people I love them.
I understand this but who can remember this all the time?

If anyone asks you how I am today, tell them, "The finality of death is getting on St. C's nerves."

St. Casserole

8 comments:

Sue said...

(o)

Presbyterian Gal said...

I so agree. And hate it myself. On top of my dad's passing this year, I learned last summer that a former fiance and really great lifetime friend of mine had died in 1999!! I always had the thought in the back of my mind, well when I talk to Byron again he'll have a good idea about such and such. Now I can't. Total bummer.

reverendmother said...

Yes. To be blunt, it bites.

Dreams are SO not the same.

Alex said...

It makes me mad when I think of something I want to tell my mother-in-law or my grandmother and I can't. Sucks. The here-and-now is important.

Quotidian Grace said...

Ain't it the truth, St. Cass. Ain't it the truth.

cheesehead said...

(o)

Songbird said...

Right there with you.

The Vicar of Hogsmeade said...

I thought of this post when I found out that Molly Ivins died today. The finality of death stinks