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Familiar
by William W. Rozek
Alone, on the third Sunday of September, having braved forward beyond all others, I pushed open the two large doors of the vestibule and stepped out into an early morning sun, one late summer day. Then I decided to walk the long way home, alone, down an old familiar side street, to wistfully wander through my memories, which had strangely been stirred by a certain sermon I had just heard. Oddly, and without concern for my new black shoes, I began to shuffle them through a myriad of dried leaves. But I quickly assured myself, from some lost childhood memory, that I merely wanted to hear, once again, that marvelous multitude of fine crisp cracklings.
And then it dawned on me, curiously enough, from that outer fringe of thought, that I could not seem to recall a single moment in my collective reflective memory, when I actually did not exist! Indeed, the mind remembers, but history records, and if I’ve always been here, then surely, I would’ve known Hannibal, Nero, Napoleon, perhaps Joan of Arc, maybe Mohammed, possibly Christ, definitely Caesar!
The morning air was refreshing; the walk was doing miracles for my aching joints. Now, with deliberation in my step, I continued along my autumnal path, enjoying familiar haunts. “In that empty lot, once stood the home in which I was born.” We were not a wealthy family, my mother and I moved often, “...to get a better deal on rent,” she always said to me whenever I asked her, “Why are we moving again? Please, can’t we stay, I just made some friends!” But that was long ago, and now they’re gone, just empty lots of lost memories. And I don’t know why I was thinking about childhood, I rarely do, for there were very few fond memories; all I remember was fighting for everything I ever wanted. “Such foolishness,” I proclaimed! But this two-mile stroll from church to home was strangely invigorating, physically and mentally! For suddenly, I froze in my forward movement as I triumphantly surmised aloud, “Every moment of life, be it good or bad, unforgettable or forgettable, is lived for, fought for, and sought for the good of one’s own self!
Secured wholly within the infinite wisdom of the soul for all eternity!” Instantly, I shut up. Embarrassed at my outburst, I quickly looked around for anyone that might’ve heard me. Thankfully, I was alone on the street and wrote this incident off as the rambling of an old man. Old men do that sometimes, talk to themselves. Normally, I only do that at home with my wife, Barb, who usually yells out, “Bill, you’re talking to yourself again!” And I immediately stop and grumble something about the aging process.
I pondered over my verbal outcry; philosophical epiphanies are not part of my forté. I wondered why I even conceived the idea, let alone shouted it aloud in a public venue. But then again, I mused, “Gaining entry into a new realm of thinking is exciting, but I’m not that smart!” I said to myself, standing beneath the comfortable solitude of the city’s oldest tree, which has been standing here for the past 200 years across from City Cemetery, “Then again, what is life, if it’s not the sum of all experience? Memories? Could heaven be but a collective repository of personal memories? If so, then hell must be a place of terrible memories, or lack of. What if in the afterlife, one only takes with them the good things they’ve created in life?” I stopped speaking and shuddered to the soul. “If someone has done nothing good in life, then heaven doesn’t exist for them.” Another cold chill shot through me. “Such nonsense,” I said to myself, pausing before I crossed over to the other side of the street. But as I started, I halted, not for any ridiculous revelation, but because of oncoming headlights. Instinctively, I knew it was a funeral procession. And as the black hearse slowly passed, it grounded my soul, for I could see clearly into the car that was following. Alone, in the backseat was a familiar face of an elderly woman...crying...it was Barbara, my wife.
the end