“I am the author of my life. Unfortunately, I am writing in pen and can’t erase my mistakes.” — German singer/songwriter Bill Kaulitz
“Life is like a book, son. No matter how much you like that book you will get to the last page and it will end. And once you get there, only when you read the last words, will you see how good the book is.” — Fabio Moon, Brazilian comic book artist
Maybe this is normal. Or not.
At various times over the years, I’ll stop and think how many years I have left before the last chapter is reached. I found it comforting, I suppose, to think, “Well, I probably have another 50 years before I have to worry about *whatever*.” By the time I reached my 50s, I started to think, “I have 64, the age Dad was when he died, as my first target.” When I beat that, the next goal was 76, the age at which my mother died. I turn 70 in January, so I have a narrowing window. It gets real when your “years to go” metric shrinks to 10…maybe…from 50 or so.
Maybe I’ve been living alone too long. Here’s something else I think about. After enough years zip by, you realize that yeah, you can apportion your life into chapters. A truism. And probably a trite one. Even so, if you’re the slightest bit introspective, it’s a way of framing things when you look back. Your first life with your parents and siblings is one chapter, then there’s a second covering independence, courtship and maybe marriage. Your work and profession might be a whole separate book or a thread, and Raising A Family was an important chunk of the narrative for me. Then there are post-having-a-houseful-of-kids-and-their friends chapters. “Retirement” kicks another chapter for most.
I think of my husband who, during one of our conversations as he was battling lung cancer over 20 years ago, told me, “You know, I’m really going to miss you guys.” I’m sorry he wasn’t able to read more chapters of my book, and especially our son’s. And I wish I could see how the books turn out that my son and my sisters and brother and their families are putting together.
And I realize that as I start to write my last chapter, I’d better make it good. After all, there are no do-overs.
And i curse auto spelling that gets everything wrong!...”no brite ...i leave you with
Sally, i actually died two years ago and then through some miracle of EMT Training was brought back after eight minutes. There was nothing there that i can remember, no Brighton lights, bridges, Morgan freeman’s voice a callin me Home. But i came out if it with a tremendous respect for survivors and wrote my first book of fiction, which is here at charlesmadigan.com. That, alone, was worth dying for a bit. I krave youneith the same message the roman slaves whispered on the Ear of retirning generals after victories in war: Tempus fugit! Memento mori. Thats not as dark as it seems. It means time flees, remember you will die. Basically, it says dont waste a minute!