Thank you Mr. Fulghum for that wonderful thought. I'm almost smiling.
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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