This morning, with a friend, I read my obituary in the newspaper. It had some nice things to say, yet it seemed like there was little effort put into its writing. It felt incomplete. I understand that it’s difficult to summarize a person’s entire life in just one column, but if an obituary’s purpose is to tell a person’s life story, then why do they all sound the same? People live drastically different lives, but every obituary I’ve read still has the same structure — and mine was no exception: It explained when & where I was born, how I grew up, what I did for a living, and when & where I died — but it failed to explain why I had lived the way I did.
The doorbell rang and a red envelope slid through the mail slot of my front door, falling upon my ever-growing pile of unread mail. It was a letter from another friend asking me to visit him sometime. I couldn’t remember the last time I had visited him, let alone anyone. I think someone told me not to, but I couldn’t remember who told me that, either. It might’ve been Diane — oh, how I miss her so… Regardless, I decided to accept his offer. But that didn’t matter, because when I walked outside I could no longer remember what I was doing or where I was supposed to be. Walking along the sidewalk, I encountered an old man. This old man seemed familiar to me, but I couldn’t recall who he was or how I knew him. He didn’t recognize me. I was convinced that he must be a stranger. In any case, the encounter unsettled me. I was determined to find my way back home. That I did not forget how to do.
I woke up in my bed, convinced it was a new day and that I had slept in until the evening. Waking up, I could remember many things, especially reading my obituary. I remembered my love for Diane and the failed attempt to visit my friend, but I still couldn’t remember who the old man was. I had resolved to reconnect with all three of these people that day, starting with Diane. I tried to phone her but the call wouldn’t go through. This devastated me. I then left my house to visit my friend.
Eventually, I found myself trapped in a great throng of people, which only exacerbated my feelings of isolation. Amongst the crowd, I saw the same old man from before. I only caught a glimpse of him as he passed me by, but I could tell that he was suffering the same that I was. This time, I wasn’t unsettled by my encounter with him. Rather, I felt a sense of comfort in the way our lives paralleled. If only I could remember who he was. By the time I had broken through the crowd, disoriented, I had lost my sense of direction. I had forgotten what I was doing and where I was supposed to be; that is, until my friend appeared in front of me. He was on his way to collect the evening paper.
He led me to his house and we sat at a table and talked about my obituary. He, too, had read it in the morning paper, which encouraged him to reach out to me for a visit. He asked how Diane was doing, but I couldn’t remember anything about her. I described my encounter with the old man and was surprised to hear that he knew exactly who I was talking about. Although his description of the old man was vastly different from mine, his encounters with him were similar.
My friend opened his copy of the evening paper and, together, we read his obituary. He was as disappointed with his obituary as I was with mine. The doorbell rang and a red envelope slid through the mail slot of his front door, falling on top of his ever-growing pile of unread mail. It was a letter from his friend, asking him to visit him sometime. He couldn’t remember the last time he had visited him, let alone anyone. He bid me farewell and left through the front door. Through the window, I watched him leave. He crossed, went up the street, crossed back, and walked down the street. Finally, he returned and went to bed. A few hours later, he woke up and tried to make a phone call. He seemed upset, too upset for me to try and comfort him. Moments later, he left and never came back. That night, I slept in his house. And when I woke up the next morning, I read my copy of the morning paper.