I See You've Called in Dead

by John Kenney

Mostly what I know is this. I know that you—all of us—should have the answer to one question: What would you write if you had to write your obituary? Today, right now. What comes to mind? What memories, days, moments? What people and experiences? I realize, at first glance, that the idea of writing one’s own obituary while still alive may sound morbid. It’s not, though. I promise you. It’s a needed reminder of who you are, of what truly matters. Because it’s your life and there’s still time to write it. Before I have to.

Aren’t we all more than our résumé? Aren’t we more than the college we attended and the places we’ve worked? Aren’t we a million things that are so subtle and nuanced that most people never see them or experience them? Aren’t we also that moment—that nothing moment—on a cool spring day when, stopped by a lilac bush in bloom, by the breeze moving the leaves and full violet flowers, the hint of the perfume smell in the wind and the sound of birdsong, when we close our eyes and feel deeply, profoundly grateful, before it slips away, gone, and we’re back to the noise of our own head? Aren’t we that too?

Maybe we’re all obituary writers. And our job is to write the best story we can now.”

“We need to open to life as it is, rather than how we want it to be. And how we want it to be this constant state of painlessness, of ease and safety.”

We forget so many details of our life. Weeks and months where events, moments, banal and meaningful, blur and then dissipate. And then there are the snippets that live on, forever sharp and alive, always there, waiting to be replayed.