I don't know if it is my imagination, but since the Covid lockdown and its aftermath, time simply seems to be passing at a fearsome speed.
I can't tell you how many people I have known have passed away in these last years. Yes, some were of a "good age", but some were not. Of late, loss appears to be the order of the day. In less than two years, five of those who were companions on the road at my local Catholic Church, St. Victor, have died and one or two outside of St. Victor. Two froom St. Victor died just a month apart.
Each of these people were integral parts of my life, before I moved to and from the time I moved to Los Angeles, and re-upped as a Catholic at St. Victor, before I was even 30 years old. Three were nonogenerians. The most recent died on April 16. Two were octogenarians (one was the only non-St. Victor friend and she knew one of those who died). Three were "young" in that their time came too soon (one on the East Coast).
I think I really FEEL John Donne's words in his poem For Whom the Bell Tolls: "Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee."
I am pared down. And even before these six years of near constant loss, there were people who should be here (in my selfish view) taken, and none of a great age.
Threads of my life's tapestry are being pulled out. At the same time, my earnestness about preparing for my own demise has increased. My nature being what it is, although many have never seen it (several poor souls have), I have always been aware of death and in truth afraid--hence my long period of teenage hypochondria, and far too long night terrors (those alas ended mysteriously in my late fifties or sixties).
But this period, the last chapter, and yes no amount of cheery rhetoric can change that, has been challenging, as well as an opportunity to orient my life toward the Eternal in Whom I believe not merely intellectually, but Whom I am seeking at the core of my being. I trip up on the road regularly. And though I pray for trust in the Lord, a lot, I am too often filled with the anxiety born of distrust.
Today I went to the cemetery mortuary to arrange for the latest funeral. I have gone there so often, I don't need to ask where the restrooms are! I visited my father who is ensconced in a columbarium across the way from the mortuary. The wall is nearly filled as it was not when Dad's cremains were laid to rest there in 2008. I have my space next to him. Odd to be standing outside now of the place where I will be in the blink of an eye. Oh please do not see this as morbid. I have been given already a great deal of time. More is devoutly to be wished, but simply is not of statistically long length even at its best.
The time is now. The time to get it all together emotionally and spiritually. I have known this. I too often fail to implement my knowledge. It is just one of the many consequences of the Fall. And though Redemption has been achieved through Christ, salvation requires a conscious choice, a "Yes" before the bell tolls for me.
What small thing generated this entry? I went to my local Gelson's to pick up a salad and my ginger beer. As I returned my cart to its collection place, I saw a very elderly woman, elegant, and familiar, but bent more than a bit, struggling to get into her high end car. It was a short exchange. I did not want to intrude, but I also did not want to let the moment go by without an acknowledgement of her distant, but still significant part in my life's tapestry. So, I said, "You're terrific!" She did not immediately realize that it was she I was speaking to. And so I said it again. She smiled. She was still trying to complete getting into the car and closing its door when I pulled away.
In 1966, I lived in the Bronx. My bedroom window faced another large brick building separated from mine by a long horizontal alley. It was a one bedroom apartment. I had the bedroom. My parents slept in a Castro Convertible in the living room. I have a distinct memory of one Saturday night, around 9 p.m. As I was, for some reason, kneeling on my bed, and looking out the window, my parents had tuned in to a show that was becoming popular. A anonymous hand I knew was lighting a fuse at the beginning, and the music of Lalo Schifrin met my 12 year old ears. Mission Impossible. Of course, I went to the living room immediately, feeling oddly secure that the three of us shared a common enjoyment of this show (as we did the Avengers; the Monkees my parents bore with a paradoxical sarcastic stoicism). Barbara Bain (aka Cinnamon Carter), was 35 years old.
And now, across a continent and time, there she was in the Gelson's parking lot with this former Bronx child, me age 72 and she age 94.
That moment I remember was just yesterday. All the moments with the people I have known in greater or lesser ways were just yesterday.
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