Inscribed In The Register Of Life: Now And Forever.

“One thing alone I charge you. As you live, believe in life!”

– W.E.B. Du Bois’ last message (1957)

There are so many painful aspects to getting older. If we focus on them, we depress ourselves.

We remind ourselves that not getting older is far more traumatic. Staying alive is our most primal instinct. We owe it to our God who created us, to our families who might no longer need us, but still desperately desire us.

Ultimately, we owe it to ourselves.

Baseball catchers are paid extravagantly to frame pitches, making them appear more acceptable. It behooves us to do the same. Our rewards are even greater.

Don’t focus on the fact that I am the slowest runner on my daily trek where, a half-century ago, I was usually the fastest. Instead, be proud of the fact I’m always the oldest. Relish that I am now in the “Inspiration Phase” of my running career. (Every time I go out, someone tells me I am “An Inspiration.”)

The hardest thing to accept, the one that most of us didn’t anticipate, is losing our friends. Somehow, we assumed as members of the same class, the same bunk, the same family, we would go through life together, forever.

Then, suddenly, one day, they’re gone. And we remain.

This has been the case since the beginning of time. What’ is new is, in our modern world, there is a salient technological manifestation of this. Our cellphone registers.

Whenever we are in alphabetical proximity of our departed friend, their name, phone number, email and birthday remind us of their absence.

Yes, they can be easily deleted, but I have a secret. Some may call it silly; I don’t.

I can’t delete them. I won’t.

My friend has a framed photo of her late husband hanging over their dining room table so he continues to be present at every family meal. His grandchildren often derive comfort talking to him.

I derive comfort seeing beloved friends’ names on my phone register.

When I see them unexpectedly, I don’t wince. I smile, savoring my memories of them.

When I am reminded of their birthdays, I can no longer call them to sing “Happy Birthday” to them, as I once did, but I can sing it to myself. Though I rue the day they died, I can still celebrate the day they were born. I believe they hear me.

When the Holy Days approach, they might no longer be inscribed in the Book of Life, but Craig, Larry, Stanley, Steve, Willy, and many others, will continue to live in my register.

For me, they are still alive.

And that makes me more alive.