What will I leave when I’m done,
when I’ve run this earthly course,
when, in accord with the reckoning of the Eternal Maker,
I will have spun my final transient thread?
(This question, an existentialist’s amusement,
his self-indulgent, in part, melancholic entertainment
on a January day at dusk,
just as the light flees the sky.)
Material things, I have not (though debt I do):
a few books, treasured volumes marking an evolution of my intellectual inquisitions;
copies of one I’d written that died on my shelf for lack of (my disdain for) self-promotion;
notebooks, tapes, and e-files of numerous words
(not countless, for to say such would be hyperbole; but who’s counting?);
some shaped into homilies, each and all, at one time,
written and spoken with a given people,
in a given place,
at a given time;
others, disciples lined row upon row, page by page of fictional characters,
each and all, a strand of the tapestry of my personality.
Hence, what will I leave?
That determination must be left to the judgments of those I leave.
Still, hazarding a guess, this is what I think. Not much,
save the memories others may have of:
the whispers of a ventriloquist’s voice striving, struggling to sound respectable and
the public smiles & laughter, the camouflage for private frowns of self-disownment and
the false wizardry of Oz, though curtained, unable to conceal a native absence of confidence and
the dead-boned valley of a soul that ruach could not revive.
Again, not much. Perhaps less than not much.
Yet, as long as I have breath and strength,
then, by the e’er-present Spiritual powers of faith, hope, and love,
I have life to be and labor to do.
Thus, a chance that I might become someone I’d remember kindly and well.