Letter to my Son
Sunday, 10 November
 |
| Born Again |
Good Morning Jack…
The first thing you’re asked to do once you have died is to
write the story of the life you just finished.
At any rate this is what happened to me and I suspect it is the normal
procedure to determine your next step. As
for myself I was more than a bit confused because I hadn't yet realized that I had died. It isn't helpful to be greeted in such a
manner no matter one’s state of mind. I
would have thought a ‘Welcome!’ of some sort would have been more in order. It was disappointing to be received in such a
disinterested manner but I guess bureaucracy is the natural resource to be
called upon when there are so many souls to process every minute of every day
for what must seem an eternity. At any
rate who am I to complain? Like I’m
going to get indignant over my treatment when, let’s face it, I’m more than a
little concerned about my ultimate destination.
No. I try to compose myself so I
can write.
My first effort was along the lines of filling out a form
applying for life insurance. I gave my
date of birth, what I was named and who my parents were. I had a normal schooling and a comfortable
upbringing. I was thoroughly undisturbed
as I entered adulthood. Once I was grown
up I pulled all the expected levers in order to advance along the course of my
existence. I got a job. I got married. I had kids.
I bought a home and drove my own car.
The family watched television together in the evening. It was a lovely time for all. Of course, there were the usual disagreements
and occasional squabbles but nothing out of the ordinary. I did, though, go through a divorce. Actually there was more than one. I admit I can be a bit difficult. Still, life once again settled into a
tranquil routine while I continued to grow old and, as I now appreciate, died. Thank you.
I am most happy to be here.
Apparently this wasn't good enough. Not good enough? What is it you want? There was no explanation, no further
elaboration. No one seemed to know
anything. They are simply the
messenger. Please, take the time to tell
the story of your life.
OK, so maybe they expect me to put more effort into it. I’m wondering just how long this should
take. I decide to embellish my narrative
with a few events illustrating my reactions to life. I describe how I was involved in a fist fight
that broke out right in the middle of class one day at school. I tell of the time I flunked a Spanish test
but was saved from punishment by a timely death in the family. Once I was grown I described how it was to drink
my way through my entire first marriage.
My second attempt at matrimony was more productive but I did wind up
locking myself away in a room for long periods of time before I was eventually
thrown out and fired as both husband and father. I suppose I should also add that I shot some
people without much caring because, after all, we were at war and I was just
doing my job. Don’t get the wrong idea,
though, there were many rewarding moments.
I was present at the birth of all my children and there were family
trips to Disneyland. Life was mostly one
of contentment. I grew gracefully old
and died. Once again I would like to
express my gratitude for being here.
Thank you.
This time I got pretty annoyed when they, once again, asked
me to give them the story of my life. Are
you kidding? What the hell do you
want? You’re screwing with me, I can
tell. Is there a supervisor here I can
talk to? No? Thanks… for nothing. Who’d a thought the Feds had taken over the
afterlife? This is crap.
I think swearing in a sanctuary is probably what did me in. Next thing I know is that I am assigned to an
area for souls waiting to be born again in a new body. This is not good. They’re probably thinking I have some rough
edges that need smoothing out. I know
their type. I’ll probably be born as an
infant in a marsh in some country like Bangladesh. Whatever happens – don’t expect a
postcard. I won’t remember a thing. No telling how many times I've been through
this turnstile.
Love,
Dad
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