Finitude is a hard concept, like flint or Scotland’s rocky landscape. We like to pretend it isn’t there. Has vanished. Don’t trouble us no more. But it lurks and—suddenly! Reaches out, grabs us, shakes us, Sometimes throttles us. So we know it’s out there, always. My neighbor John died last week, After a quick decline. Just last summer, he welcomed us here, Invited me to borrow his tools, Seemed like a linchpin of our small local scene. A bit of a talker. Now, gone. The notion has broader connotations, Global reach. We think we can consume like there’s no tomorrow, Until there’s no tomorrow. After so many generations of loss, of hunger, Of pain, we still seem surprised when finality comes for us.
This is very moving, Chris. That you for sharing it with us. I've been feeling something undefinable lately and I think with the passing of each friend or acquaintance we feel closer to the edge ourselves. Yet most of us have more on our agendas, silly assurance that we will ~ somehow ~ finish everything on our list. A while ago, someone posted on FB, "The problem is, we think we have time."
Written, actually, a few months ago, just after John's death.