Everybody but me, 11/09

We are coming up on Veteran's day, a day that I would always take off from work, one way or an other. I have been lucky in recent years to work for organizations that have been paid to stay home in bed. Earlier on, especially during my student days when I still had a handful of fellow vets around, it was a big day to celebrate, even if it was a day without pay. We would lay down our books and tip beer cans until the sun went down. It was always a case of foggy studies after that.

But this last year was a bit different. The Boy was living here at the time, I was still working for our once mutual employer and I had the whole day to goof off. It was midweek, though, and no fellow vets around to get wild with so it was somewhat mellow day instead. I suppose I could go back and my review notes and find out exactly what I did but the one thing that stands out in my mind is make the drive I took through the Woods, the one where I saw you walking along the side of the road. You were on the phone, your head covered by your sweater hood. I slowed down, you looked up, waved and then resumed your walk, your talk, your head down as you ambled towards Mary Mac.

That was the last time I saw you.

On the way to this page this morning I stopped by the US Census site. They have a population clock that is updated every few seconds. It really is truly something to see. I got out a pen and paper, jotted down some figures, hit "refresh" and saw that the numbers had changed. Hit refresh again and once again the numbers went up.

I only mention this because the other day I was talking with the Hot Dog King about the very same thing, but in a slightly different contex. I suppose mentioning the six billion, seven hundred ninety five million and counting people in the world might be a bit extreme, but I do think that the 307 million, 887 thousand, 888 some odd folks in this country, that is, as of 16:44 on 11/8/2008 have something over on me.

What is it that those folks have that I don't have?

The ability to talk to you. To call you up. To dine with you. To say hello to you.

I think of all the truly mundane things of the world that people do for a living, and every one of them can do those things for you. Pump your gas, fetch new shoes from back in the storeroom, bag your groceries, change your oil, cut your hair. I think of all the people who can talk to you and never really know what a priviledge it is to do so. You can talk to a customer service rep, your neighbors, a colleague at work, a member of your congregation, an in-law, your children's friends. Everybody and anybody. Almost all of those folks pass through your life without blinking an eye, without thinking about how great it is to do so. Just think, those people are everywhere. A member of the waitstaff. A repairman. A clerk at the local coffee shop. All those folks, all around town, the region, the state, heck, all around the country, the world. Every one of those folks has access to you and don't even know you, or if they do, don't really have to do much more than smile, take your money, sweep up after the parade.

Everybody has the ability to talk to you, see you, to shake your hand, say hello, sit down with you, sip coffee, talk about life with you. Everybody but me.

And why is that?

Because, my dear, I chose to love you, and you chose to love me.

So now, instead of talking and laughing and sipping coffee and working alongside you I wander about town, do the Stations of the Cross, engage in retail therapy, shop in supermarkets that I generally don't shop in, stop at video stores that my account is not set up in, drive around the county and blow gas and burn miles just on the chance that I might drive by and see you, that I might run into you in the vegetable aisle of Freddies or see you in the Wild Bird store while picking up birdseed or at Starbucks while grabbing a cup of joe. I think of all the time I spend looking for you, and then I think of all the time all the rest of the people in the world go about doing their business in an everyday kind of way and never think twice about how grand it is to serve you, to see you, to say good morning to you, to ask you what it is that they can do for you.

I think of that, of all that squandered happiness, and wonder what it is about love, about friendship, about being pals, that I don't misunderstand, that I just don't get.

What is it about that state of mind, about that state of the heart, that was so heinous that I have to lose you for the rest of my life, and that everyone gets to have you in theirs, instead? Was loving you such a crime?

Yeah, I suppose it was.

For that reason, if for no other, I wish I could set things back to those days before we started out on our adventure, make things like they were before, when I could call you on the phone at home, call you into work, have you standing there by my side with your cart of books or your stacks of checked in, unsorted materials, and just talk. Talk about our kids, about Colorado, about birds, abour recipes, about whatever.

Right now I wish I could be one of the anonymous or known six billion and counting, just so that I could see your face and wish you a good morning again.

Your WHMB