David Kirby

Rollo’s Got a Lot to Say

Poor Rollo! He’s wheezing away at my feet as I read the newspaper,

though as he was feral till last week, he’s not even my cat, nor is

his name Rollo, since that’s just what we call him. Rollo looks like

the love child of a dustmop and a Whoopee cushion, and I’m guessing

that he came inside so he can die where it’s warm. I’ve finished the news

and sports sections, meaning the obituaries are next. I love obituaries—

you? Obituaries are about life, not death. What could be more consoling?

Mary Barnes lived for 86 years! And it says here that 23 of those were

spent in the loving presence of her soulmate, Hal. Malcolm Gant wasn’t

around quite that long, but look what he accomplished: B.S., M.S, and PhD.

in chemistry, Teacher of the Year, mentor to the young, loving husband

and father, faithful servant of the Lord. Obituaries make some people nervous,

but if you’re reading them, you’re still here, even if no one else knows it.

Obituaries don’t celebrate the living: they’ll tell you that Adelaide Williams

expired at the age of 62 but not that Alice Hopkins is hanging in there

at 79 and Ted Moncrieff is still going strong at 94. Lucky Mary Barnes!

She doesn’t have to listen to all the crap dished out by know-it-alls

any more: how to live longer, how to live better, how to make love,

how to make money, how to make love to your money. Advice is meant

for the young—the old don’t have time to act on it. Seneca gave

the only advice that makes sense to old folks when he said, “Anyone

who dies with the same contentment he had at birth has become wise.

But as it is, we tremble as the danger approaches: our minds fail us

and our faces grow pale. Tears fall but accomplish nothing.

What is more disgraceful than being overwhelmed with worry

at the very threshold of tranquility?” Then again, the same Seneca said,

“If old age begins to shatter my mind and destroy parts of it—

if I can no longer live but only breathe—then I will jump free

from that crumbling and collapsing edifice.” Look out, citizens of Rome,

here comes Seneca. Fore! Somebody else—Plato, maybe,

or Sinatra—said that as far as the afterlife goes, things’ll

work out either way: if the soul is annihilated, there will be nothing

to experience suffering, and if it survives, off it goes on a new adventure.

Here, Rollo, try some of these turkey morsels. Rollo’s legacy

is the last thing that Rollo is thinking about. Rollo knows

there is knowledge beyond language. That language is not primitive.

It’s precise. It’s our language that’s the approximation. Animals

have this knowledge. We have it, too, somewhere, but it’s harder

to access: when we tell ourselves that words are all that matter,

we lose touch with the knowledge that lies beyond them. Rollo knows

what’s happening the way all animals know, like the bear who knows

to rest in winter and the bird who knows to fly south. Rollo is just part

of a long march, and he knows that or at least seems to, just as he seems

to know that there’s nothing outside of the march, that nothing

can be lost. The seventy-one lost plays of Aeschylus will appear again

or be written by someone else. Meanwhile, you say you miss

your mother, but don’t you talk to her every day? Rollo knows that

the love I have for him is enormous, and he’ll carry it even as

he passes from this world. It will be the last thing he feels—

after breath, after senses, after his last heartbeat. After everything,

he’ll still have love. That’s the most that we can hope for. Power

like that doesn’t vanish. It’s like the sun as it slips under

the horizon; even if you can’t see it, it’s there. Death isn’t the end.

Death is a question to which your life is the answer, and you write it

every day. Did you drop your pen? Someone will pick it up.

As if anyone could improve on what you’ve written already!

Why, what you’ve written already outstrips anything set down by

the ancients, even if no one knows it. Even if no one knows it yet.

Life is Easier Than You Think

You, me, that guy over there: we need all the help

we can get. Not James Bond, though. James doesn’t

need our help. James just brushes off the snow

or sand or aspen needles (depending on whether

he’s been in the mountains or the desert or an Alpine

forest) and smooths down his brilliantined hair

or adjusts his goggles (depending on whether

he’s going into or onto or leaving a casino

or ski slope) and flicks what appears to be a morsel

of the recently deceased villain’s brain off

the sleeve of his scuba outfit or camo jacket or tux

(depending on whether he’s been in or on or will be

in or on the ocean or the Alpine forest or ski slope

or casino again) and continues toward the next phase

of his adventure as you turn to me and stage-whisper,

“What if that were us? We’d be helpless!” That said,

life is easier than you think. There are only two rules.

The first rule is that when you make your sandwich,

be sure the peanut butter and jelly go all the way

to the very edge of the bread. If you go over, no biggie:

you can always lick your fingers. The second rule

is to pay always for the person behind you in

the drive-thru. Don’t count the number of passengers.

Don’t look at the other car's bumper stickers. Just pay,

and don’t take your time picking up your own order

in hopes of getting a wave or horn tap in thanks.

Just keep moving forward in the line. Do you think

James Bond would wait around for a wave

or a horn tap? I should say not! The question is

whether or not he would pay in the first place,

the answer to which is yes, since he could save the receipt

and give it to Miss Moneypenny for reimbursement.

I bet working for MI5 would be fun. All that travel!

And your meals paid for. See? You, too, can be a hero.