The Whole Time

This section from Paul Bowels’ The Sheltering Sky hit me hard:

Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don’t know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It’s that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don’t know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times and a very small number, really. How many more time will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that so deeply a part of your being that you can’t conceive of your life without it. Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even that.

Isn’t that just a terrible thought? That some memory you cherish, that fills you up when you recall it, when you know you need to recall it, will someday not? Irretrievable from lack of use.

To think of my parents, now passed, and beautiful memories of them once held, now, I don’t access.

And they are gone.

Others held to be sure but…not enough.

Growing up agnostic though I was, I used to think about how delightful it would be, when sitting before god upon my death, to watch the movie of my life. 

I want the movie of my life. So much. I need to know it is there. Not only my parents but my children? I won’t recall this moment where Juju did this and MisterMister did that?

Maybe I’m wrong.

Maybe before I go to hell, before judgement is passed on me, I’ll get to watch the movie of my life.

Watching that movie, knowing what is awaiting me, I’ll smile the whole fucking time.