Seven In Two Years

On the eve of my four months retirement from corporate America, it happens to be the eve of the wedding of my two good friends, B and J.  B is very very ill, and will likely pass very soon.  Every fiber in J's body will then hurt.  Today, in my head, I said my goodbye at the hospital.  I felt dull and sad; I couldn't fake a smile.  And I listened to Mozart Requiem all day while I sent crab grass and dandelions to their demise.  

I counted.  Seven in two years.  I went to seven memorial services in two years. That's three times of funerals as weddings I attended.  I don't know what is the average number, but seven in two years seems a bit excessive. Some, I was very close to, including Eric and Julian.  Some, acquaintances.  The rest, somewhere in-between.  One would think it's somewhat natural to start attending funerals once you hit a certain golden age.  The problem is I hardly consider 47 that "golden age." I feel morbid.  

Inspirational posters often remind us to live life to the fullest because we don't know when we would, well, die.  That's why some genius made up a thing called the Bucket List.  "Before I die, I want to see or do these 85 things on this list." Faithfully, a check mark was ticked when an item was accomplished.  Like a grocery list.  

I realized, it's all wrong.  We go on with our days hoping and assuming "they" - others in our lives - will be around tomorrow.  Then the next day.  And the next. The "they" is unspecific - it can be anyone.  

I don't know when "they" will leave.  I suppose "leave" can mean anything outside the status quo.  Of course, it also means death.  When it happens, that leaves me. The one who didn't yet die.  With holes of various sizes.  Wishing to have asked "them" to tell me more stories.  Wishing to have kept that lunch date instead of finishing some "critical steps" in a project.  Wishing to have gone to that baseball game instead of making up some lame excuses to not.  Wishing to have baked "them" more bread.  Or pies.  It could be anything.    

A purposeful life is not about self-preservation so that there is no hole.  A purposeful life is about creating meaningful holes.  You constantly move forward to create a new life, and more holes.  Stopping is dying. 

"Living life to the fullest" is never about my last breath.  Its about "their" last breath.   

I never bother to keep a Bucket List.  I don't need to see the Leaning Tower of Pisa that badly.  A postcard will do.  I would rather be spending time and doing things with "them", and if it happens to be at Pisa, let's pack a picnic.