Better Place

I thought about those two words for the longest time.  Honestly, I still do.   I see them everywhere.  Every time, someone leaves us, those two words force their way out of everyone's mouth.  Every time, goodbye is inevitable, there they are again. 

I thought it might be easy for them atheist folks until I heard them speak.  Well, until, I listened as they spoke.  Such anger, with such religious fervor, those non believers regurgitate the hymns of fear.  That's the thing about anger, it's just a secondary emotion and it's always a result of fear.

When you're on your death bed and the end is inevitably near, perspective changes.  Logic and truth finally divorce each other from the arrogant vows they made long before.  Really, it comes down to those two words.


Everyone thinks they're interesting.  Everyone is always telling the storyteller next to them they should write a book.  I suppose, we are more ordinary than we believe.  I suppose, we are also more unique than we realize.  But we're all the same.


I was 12 years old and mom was leaving town for the weekend.  Her only instructions to me were a demand that I go to church on Sunday.  No other rules.  No curfew.  No expectations.  Just make it to church on Sunday.

Sunday arrived.  It was pouring rain.  Football was on. I had a major dilemma.   So, I jumped on my bicycle, rode 2 miles in the downpour, got to church.  Ran inside the foyer, grabbed the Sunday bulletin and rode my bike back home.

Problem solved.  Now, I had proof I went to church.  Mom never mentioned anything about staying for the sermon. 

Loopholes are always sought by the young.  

As I placed that now soaked church bulletin on our kitchen table, those two words were staring right at me as I glanced over the weekly church members obituary section.  They resonated with me.


Years, okay, two decades later, I heard them again echo throughout a crowded sanctuary.  I was sitting alone in a sea of friends, acquaintances and former party colleagues.  It was a matter of pride and a more comfortable way of grieving. 

How did we get here?  How did we let this happen?  Those were my thoughts.

He could have written a book if he ever finished writing his story.  But like all ordinary men, they die early.  And tragically.  It's easy to fail. 

I like the idea of those of us left behind getting to finish his book simply so his story was not unfinished in vain.   

He's in a better place filled with unaccomplished authors.  A place where talent is over rated and potential is a dirty word.

If this life is all there is, we should make the most of it.  And if this life is merely a speck in a time and nothing really matters in the grand scheme of everything, we should still make the most of it.  No one really dies.  I don't believe that.  I think a true reflection of one's life comes after we are gone as people recollect their moments with us; as memories are retold over and over again; as our names are mentioned and others are flooded with emotion be it anger or hate or love or admiration.

I think there is a better place for us when we die.  Maybe, it's not heaven.  Maybe, it's just simply the fact, we will always be remembered for something.  To truly die, one has to be forgotten.  No one ever is.

When I sat in that crowded sanctuary as we all said our final goodbyes to that unaccomplished author and beautiful friend, I did not relive his moments of weakness or count any of his self-perceived flaws.  I thought of every moment where he was the good friend and man he was.  I thought of his uniqueness and not of the ordinary way he left us.

He is in a better place. 

At least, with me, he is.