An Essay A Day For A Year
By Roe
Day 17, January 17, 2012
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I love the expression “I never saw an armored car at a funeral”. When I was small boy I was a bit puzzled by that expression, I guess I hadn’t arrived at the passionate or greedy stage in my life yet. I also hadn’t ever been to a funeral either. Over the years the expression has evolved for me quite a bit. When I did figure out how ambition and greed work, I clearly understood that I better hurry up and enjoy what I could carry in the armored car before it wouldn’t come to my funeral. I guess I have a funny way of thinking. I’ve always been fascinated by funerals, and in my travels around the world I definitely can say that I have never seen a moving truck full of goodies following the dead person to their oven or hole in the ground. I have carefully watched the reaction of dying people, and the people that the dying person leaves behind. And not so ironically I have never heard anyone speak of wealth or possessions. Dying people speak of people, and survivors of the dead person speak of the person that died, and the other people that miss that person. So what is all this about “people”?
I imagine a Planet of the Apes scene where there is only one single human left alive. I imagine the loneliness of this person, and a grief that debilitates this person’s will to live to the point of welcoming death. Then I imagine by sheer chance this lost soul encountering another human “person”, and the feeling of relief and hope and connection that this union of two people brings to their hearts. This person encountered could be rich or poor or black or white or young or old or anything at all, and instantly all human divisions disappear with the sheer elation of no longer being alone. I imagine them hugging and laughing and their amazement and excitement at finding each other. I imagine these two people crying together and sharing stories of all the people that they lost and miss. Stories of many, many funerals, and not one story of one armored truck full of money.
I am well acquainted with passion and ambition and greed. We all live in a passionate, ambitious, and incredibly greedy culture, and world. It is really nice to have stuff, and lots of it, and wouldn’t it be grand to have armored trucks full of cash to follow us around. Forget credit cards and wallets, we can just whistle at our guy with the bullet proof vest and shotgun and he’ll run over and pay for the grand lunch tab we just ran up. How cool would that be, just one single truck load to pay for my private airliner, and I have a whole fleet more of the trucks and guys to whistle at back home, right next to your fleet.
I then imagine seeing an ad in the leading armored truck magazine that we all subscribe to where a guy like Ricardo Montalban from Fantasy Island offers to trade me my entire fleet of trucks loaded with gold and diamonds and bundles of cash, for any dead person that I love but have lost. I think I am so special and so damn fast, yet when I get to Ricardo’s house there are a million other trucks already there, and coincidentally, you and yours is there too. Should I be surprised? Who do you love and who have you lost?
My beautiful mother survived even more than hell could dream up growing up in Germany during WW2. I see no point in causing you to cringe in repeating only a portion of the poor young girl’s life. Miraculously she somehow emigrated to beautiful California, and even more miraculously, managed to get me out of her womb. Overall as a mother she doesn’t really score that high, I’ve spent a whole life healing the scars deeply embedded in me by her and my father, also a German who experienced things no child should ever even imagine. My mother did her best, but including a decade of alcoholism and promiscuous coming out during the 70’s, it was nowhere near good enough. I have a lot of catching up to do with beautiful German Renate, my mother, since all the very painful healing I have been doing for decades. Unfortunately my mother died of a brain tumor at the age of 58 years old, 12 years ago.
Ricardo from Fantasy Island, I will give you everything I own that will fit in any truck, armored or not, including the clothes on my body, if I could see my mother Renate again. I miss my mom, and it doesn’t matter what grade of mom she was, she is my mom, and I would give anything just to see her continue to live her life, and enjoy me and the 4 grand kids that she liked so much. This feeling reminds me of what I experienced with every dying person I have ever had the privilege to share moments with, and every person at every funeral all over this vast world with whom I have shared tears with. I followed a procession of mourners in Guatemala one day long ago where two tiny twin girls who had died of cholera were carried to their graves. I remember the scene where the father knelt at the edge of their very small hole in the ground and offered to God everything he owned in the world, for just one more chance to hold his two babies. I remember swearing to myself that day as I shared tears with him and his wife and their whole village, that every day of my very miraculously fortunate life would be lived and enjoyed with people before my ambition and greed.
At the risk of sounding melodramatic or corny or mushy, I hereby demand to be allowed to be melodramatic and corny and mushy. I miss my mom. Your life and mine have significance and value only because of the love we share with those we love, and today, if not in many thousand tomorrows, those that you love will be dead. And when they die part of you will die with them. And you will think of nothing more than calling Ricardo, if you are not wishing that you could do that right now just like me. Ambition is for filling our lives with loving people, and greed is a proud remark when we just can’t horde enough joy in sharing the only thing that matters in life. And that is to hold our babies just one more time, to hug our mom just one more time, to devote ourselves to appreciating every moment of the love we share with those still living right now.
Mom, I wish I could see you tomorrow.
yourpersonalmuse@gmx.com
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