Missing You
In the listing from page two of the Times:
the departure time of the ocean liner.
When you're there, it's so huge,
it doesn't seem to move. Still,
soon the throwing of kisses
and more civil gestures ends.
Greeted now by the mists,
just over the horizon.
So, I have a brother who has a daughter who teaches English in Korea. She's just out of college, actually starting her second year of teaching now! They're very close, and I know he misses her. When I was over at his house last, they had pictures from her vacation with girlfriends on the computer monitor. "When are these from?" I asked.
"Oh. Today."
"Oh."
This column isn't about some old guy not understanding computers. It's about missing someone. Well, it turns out they have a regular "date" each Friday evening to talk for 20-30 minutes on Skype. Plus, she has a blog to which she contributes each week. That and emails and the rather old fashioned telephone! Hell, they're more connected than when they lived together. Perhaps a little too connected. No, I'm just kidding!
So, what's say, shall we race ahead and imagine a digital file on each of us, viewable by our "followers" after our death. A virtual after-life. Would that not be like some elongated wake, a time for friends and family to get together at www.yourname/eternalhost.com. Although it's a little like the family that couldn't afford to buy Daddy a nice suit for his funeral, so they rented one. . . I'm sure there will be something like it.
Like a lot of places, the free version would have just the basics: mug shots, important dates, posed photos; the 29.95/mo. version gets you video from the trip to Tahoe, his living will and goodbyes to the children, drunken attempts at humor. Very novelistic. Keep it real, right?
I had an idea for this treatment, but in the newspaper version. Called Truebituary, it never got to its literary feet. It only reported the truth, how much money he owed and to whom; why nobody liked him; the many employers who gave him a chance, only to throw up their hands; short remarks from his children.
Anyway, in my version, these bad guys, who knew they were bad guys, loved Truebituary and paid big money to have theirs written in such a style. Imagine.
Perhaps it was a good death. My newspaper treatment, I mean.
