Looking Forward

My father finds it disturbing that I look forward to death. It’s not that I want to die (usually; particularly.) You don’t want your favorite book to end, sure, in a way. But still, you want to read the ending. You want to have the whole thing. You want to know how the story turns out, if there’s one last twist.

My father prefers to pretend death is never coming, which I in turn find a little disturbing. And odd, because his metaphysical convictions are so much stronger than mine. He knows exactly what happens when you die. Nothing happens. The candle flame goes out, and there’s not even a wisp of smoke. It’s the most reassuring and comfortable picture of death that I can imagine, so why on earth would you shy away from it? Maybe it’s just that under his ostensible metaphysics lurk the metaphysics of his grandparents, the final judgement, the day of wrath, old Nobodaddy’s final ferocious temper tantrum. Or maybe it’s that dread of nothing that so many people seem to have, a terror at nonexistence. Which seems to me like being terrified of being assaulted by a kitten. But maybe I in my turn am pretending my own elephant is not breathing heavily in the corner? I wonder that sometimes. I hold my own breath to listen: nothing. That’s hardly conclusive, but it’s the best I have.

Leaves are already turning yellow, and the plums have already turned purple. I don’t know why everything’s happening early this year. I don’t think it’s because I’ve retired and they’re anxious to keep me entertained. I think the music they listen to has sped up, this summer. They’re hearing something that says “quick now!” But if I didn’t know the date, I would step out onto my porch and think “oh, September! My favorite time of year!”