It’s the saddest thing. When you’re dying, you’re supposed to reflect on
your friends and family. Some say they should only be happy memories, while
others say everything is just jumbled together. But that’s not what’s
happening to me. I’m focusing on a single memory that has kind of haunted me
for my whole life since it happened. I guess I’ll start at the end, because
it might help explain why that particular memory managed to rise to the
surface, and outshine all others. Yesterday, my grandchildren wanted to take
me out for what I think everyone knew was going to be a final decent meal. I
don’t think they thought I was going to actually kick the buck the next
morning, or they probably would have just huddled around my bed, and said
goodbye. They knew I would leave them soon, though, and it was important
that they see me out with fanfare. Now, I don’t think the incident at the
restaurant is what killed me, but I guess it’s not too crazy to think that a
part of me decided that my life wouldn’t get better after that, so if I
wanted to end on a high note, this was the time to do it. I’m making it
sound like it was a happy moment, aren’t I, but I did call it an incident,
if you remember, and there’s a reason for that. So there I was, sitting in
my wheelchair at the booth with my whole family. They were talking mostly
amongst themselves. They don’t know how to talk to me anymore, and the
younger ones never did. They’re all into computers, and celebrities I never
heard of, but I don’t feel distressed, because I enjoy the company just the
same. I don’t hate the future, I just didn’t work very hard to keep in
touch. I think I did just fine. Man, I’m going on a lot of tangents, aren’t
I? The story is that I lost interest in the conversation, and ended up
eavesdropping on a mother scolding her daughter for wanting some cake.
Now, far be it for me to decide what this little girl is allowed to have,
but it became clear as I listened in that she wasn’t allowed to have the
cake, not because it cost too much, or because it would spoil her dinner,
but because the mother thought she was too fat. I just had to say something,
even though it was none of my business. And the reason is because about
thirty years ago, I didn’t say anything in a similar situation, and I always
regretted it. A man came into the restaurant while I was having dinner with
my family, not unlike the last lunch yesterday. He was very obviously
homeless. Unkempt, many layers of clothing in fairly late spring, with a
smell. A businessman in a really good mood had just given him a hundred
dollar bill, and he wanted to treat himself. Some people stared, clearly not
wanting him to be there at all, but one particular man started scolding him
for wasting the money on a decadent meal when he really ought to have been
saving up, and being frugal. I was a coward, and I didn’t say a word. I
didn’t think I had the right. My youngest daughter spoke up, though, and I
was so proud of her. As it turned out, the whole thing had been staged. They
were filming a TV show where they set up these stressful situations to see
how people would react. I basically failed the test, and it wasn’t that I
embarrassed myself on national television. It was just that it could have
been real, and in many ways, it was real, because not everyone in the
restaurant was in on the act. No one blamed me for not standing up for the
man—and of course, no one else did, except for my daughter—but I felt bad
about it anyway. So that’s why I felt compelled to inject myself in that
mother-daughter argument yesterday. It was like my redeeming moment. Huh,
you know what, I guess I am reflecting on my family.
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