On the Megabus bound for Cleveland, there was time to kill. I read the Chicago Tribune death notices closely.
Lost from my hometown just in the last couple of days had been:
Beloved fathers.
Dear grandfathers.
Loving brothers.
Cherished husbands.
Loved wives.
Devoted daughters.
Blessed sons.
Fond special friends.
Caring aunts.
Kind uncles.
Adoring friends.
A devastating loss! Had there been a bombing overnight?
And yet, Chicago, this morning, had seemed the same as ever.
Every day we lose thousands of lovely people from this warm and caring world (for it is that too, you know), and so every day we must also replace them.
With ourselves.
Until, finally, we're lost.
And, if we're lucky, thanked for our efforts.
And then replaced, in a day.
Which, as I headed east on I-80, seemed okay with me.
This is why I love your blog David! One day you’re snarking [deservedly so, let me hasten to add!] mercilessly at some goof-ball TMI addict, and then, the very next day, you write something thoughtful, kind and inspiring like this post today!
The juxtaposition of curmudgeon and dreamer is not that typical in one single person these days, and I enjoy it, and your writing. Thanks.
“I contain multitudes!” said Whitman. He was speaking of us all. The emotional job is to be in touch with our various feelings, and to be able and willing to express them all. To the extent that I succeed at that, I’m glad. Thanks for the note, Kristen.
This is why I love to read the obituaries. And David Murray.
Thanks J. Wah. (And think of it: If you live long enough, you’ll have the ultimate pleasure: Reading David Murray’s obituary.)