... ..things left to not do ....October 16, 2007   If I wanted to attend the funeral of someone I knew well, I could do so once a week.  Fifty is not the new thirty at all.  It is the same old fifty, the fifty around which perfectly good (and bad) people die.  As I open the heavy wooden door to Johnson's Funeral Home, I cast a glance at the liquor store across the street.  In this moment, I realize that I am fifty-one, sober, and breathing.  Were I any cockier, I should crow. Once inside, I find the proper venue and sign in.  Someone has opened the casket thereby creating an invisible force field that stanches my forward flow.  I find an empty corner in the back of the room where I stand staring at my feet.  I buy time there while I work up a mature, mournful face.  For my inability to actually be mature and mournful, I am filled with guilt.  In truth, I am thinking only of myself and of all the things I still have left to not do.  previous..|..current..|..archives..|..4th quarter index..|..next

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