Death comes, silent, in the night

Charlie died a week or two ago-- those who say aren't so sure, having forgotten the details, not having gone to the funeral, he not rising for the occasion, another day passing into the eternal darkness along with Charlie. Let's have another coffee. Who takes cream?

Those who come, go. I don't know where they go. I know they don't return to me. If they look back on us the living they might sigh and wonder how it is they lived lives so meaningless that no one notices their personal passing. Life is very long. Then how might it feel to have lived a whole life-time and to have passed without making so great an impression that no one bothers to mention the last of your life at all till time goes by and it only comes up as an aside? If ones life means so little to others, how much could it have meant to oneself? This is how the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.

Me? I say, "So long, Charlie."

A penny for the old man.

I'd like to write more, something significant to give you some sense of the man and his worth, but there is nothing for me to add. Another dead guy who didn't make any impression on me at all. That's the grief in it.