A Welcome Round Table

My mother has this Christmas tradition that, when we have all taken our seats and just before we have taken our first bite of a long-awaited roast dinner, we raise a toast to the dearly departed, to those members of the family who are no longer with us and to those friends that no longer accompany us throughout our life journey.  It reminds us, the living, to be thankful that we are seeing the close of yet another year together, to remain thankful to have known the dearly departed and that we remember them still.

The fact that this takes place before we have tasted our food is of the utmost importance.  To say thank you on an empty stomach is to accept that we have lost those that will never be by our sides again, that we will never break bread with them and share our laughter and sadness across the table.  Our eyes will never again catch theirs.

I sometimes like to imagine where the deceased are now, as if their memories have somehow broken free of their corporeal remains and drift uninhibited across the globe.  It can be difficult to think that all that we have ever known and all that we have ever loved and experienced can be so self-contained in our floating globe, silently rotating in the great big soup of the universe.  But it is and it must be, that is why we remember and why we say goodbye once again at the close of the year.

Hospital Visit No. 132

Jaded I can’t even get wasted, the brown bottle bin empty.

It’s the gas, the final plunge that I think about each and every night.  That infinite high that accompanies gross body trauma.

The welcoming words of the paramedic; the soft hue of the ambulance lights.

That Cheshire cat grin as I think I overdose on the self administered pain killer.

It is the all encompassing hug of the soft welcoming paws of hospital.  The knowledge that I have survived again, that the bone can break and the flesh part, but I remain.  I remain.