I fear that one day I’ll die, and if the creek don’t rise, I’ll be walking my way to Heaven or some strange earth-like version of an afterlife, and I’ll sit and talk with God, and he’ll sneeze. Shit, what am I supposed to say?
This past week, by a river, I reflected on that question every friend, lover, relative, former professor asked: “What fears do you have? There must be some.” And I found it, and I may have found one theory to their other question, “Why do you travel and move so much?”
With all the friends I have, and all the people who appreciate me and what I do, and my contributions (and I appreciate them equally), I fear I’ll die and the timing of it will be inconvenient and no one will show. Trickle that down. I read a post a few weeks about a guy who was diagnosed with a condition that will probably limit the life he imagined before the diagnoses. Because of this, he began being incredibly nice to people, even when they were undeserving, because he just wanted them around to see that he may be worthy of such politeness in return, even when he didn’t believe it.
Perhaps I travel and move because I have the mentality of a party promoter, or the guy at the club who hits on every woman there: if I meet a million people this year and share a plate and a pint, one of them will show up at the end. I’ve been working on a novel for the last four years about this very thing.
If only one person in your life could be invited to your funeral, who would you invite?