Random Thoughts from a Restless Mind

Dr. Darrell White's Personal Blog

Cape Cod

Sunday Musings 1/9/11: Your Last Tweet

It’s a sad day, Chez bingo. It’s a sad day, but also a day to breathe, to feel alive, to cherish a life. My friend has left, and today is the day he is memorialized.

We arrived early, Mrs. bingo and I. I’m not sure just why. The receiving line was already out into the entryway; it grew by the minute. It gave me pause, to be truthful, for my friend and his family are known for the quiet grace with which they conduct their lives. My friend grew up in a very reserved setting, and although he was capable of showing every emotion in the rainbow his show was was mostly with the volume on “low”, at least outside of his closest circle.

And yet, there it was, a line that was literally out the door and winding through and around the building. It really did make me stop and think. Here was a man who went through his (too short) life with a quiet grace, neither seeking attention nor courting fame, and yet his world of “one-degree of separations” grew by the minute.

I read something this morning that came back unbidened while waiting in line: what if your last Tweet (or FB post, or email, or text or voicemail…) was the last of you? What if? What if your last goodbye is, indeed, your last goodbye? Really anything, you know? Yesterday at work, today in the gym, lunch. Whatever. What if? How long would the line be, and more importantly what would your “one degree of separations” be thinking while they stood in that line?

As I write this my sadness begins to ebb, my mood lighten. Memories of my friend from months, years ago start to trickle in; they share space with my more recent memories, but something about how many of them are arriving, how quickly and confidently they come into my “memory room” gives me comfort. There will be more of them, the good memories, and they will be the ones just inside the door waiting to greet me every time I visit that particular room. So, too, will it be for everyone (still) in line.

And for you? Me? What will the line look like, and what will the memories look like to those in line when they are thinking of us? What were your last whatevers with your whoevers? What will fill their room of memories of you? If.

I’ll see you next week.

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