The Library

     I wrote this last week, just musing to myself.  I did not intend to share it---it is not real funny, but it is real true.  I guess an old Lubbock boy has a right to be sad sometimes, and a need to share his feelings.  In any case, this is how I feel.  I wonder if anyone else feels this way.

     I suppose, even if you live a long and happy life, there are times when you get a little sad.  I do so occasionally.  Sometimes it happens for no apparent reason, just a foreboding of something amiss, a vague fear that some unknown catastrophe is about to affect my life.  Other times, there are good reasons for my depression.

     The cause of my current sadness is not a mystery.  I have three old friends who are now fighting the Big Casino, as cancer was called in another time.  Two of my friends have the pancreatic kind, which is vicious.  The third old friend has several unidentified tumors, attacking various parts of his body.  All three are fighting the good fight and all three are suffering.  None are complaining.  I can only hope, when the time comes, I will be as brave and as tough as they are.

     I say, “when the time comes” because it is sure to come.  Perhaps not the Big Casino, but something, and it will end my life.  I wonder how I will face the end of this mortal life.  I feel like a young soldier going into combat for the first time.  How will I act?  Will I disgrace myself?  Will I fight or will I run?   Am I a coward?  When you get seventy-five years old, thoughts like that are inescapable. At least they are for me.

     It appears to me, as we grow old, we are treated like used books in a public library.  Nursing homes and extended care facilities are our bookcases.  We are all lined up on the shelves, fitted in tightly next to each other.   Our stories are there to be read---some of the stories are happy, some are exciting, some are sad, and some are just boring.  All of us are anxiously awaiting someone, anyone, who will care enough to open our book and read our story.  I wish it didn’t have to be that way.

     Every now and then, the Librarian comes through pushing a cart and gathering books.  The Librarian randomly chooses a book and places it on the cart and moves down the aisle to the next bookcase.  Only the Librarian knows why each book is chosen and where the stories go.  We don’t.  We only know they never come back.

     As we continue to age in these tight little spaces, and more dust settles on our bindings, and more of our neighbors go with the Librarian, a strange thing happens.  We start to hope that, next time, the Librarian will choose us.

                                                                                                                                                                     Jim