I see dead people on Sunday.
They exist only in newsprint
in the Sunday paper.
I know that they are gone,
but I read about their lives,
told by relatives
who didn’t really know them.
We are all alone
when we die.
We think of our dead
as memories,
and our experiences make those memories
good ones.
But, think about it.
Does anyone else really know you?
Do they know all your secrets?
Do they really know what you wanted,
but were afraid to ask?
There is a strange fascination
that draws us to the sanitized life stories
of dead people
in the obituaries.
Who among us doesn’t wonder
about the real truth of their lives?
After reading the Sunday obituaries,
I always vow to write my own.
Some have done it.
They have even used humor
to color the stories,
like an old man
telling tales of his youth.
I think that I will write my own obituary.
But, not yet.
I still have secrets to hold on to.
You will have to wait
until my life is on the printed page.
I will let you know
when to look.
