You Only Know When You Are Dead

You Only  Know When You Are Dead ©

By Michael Casey

There is something similar between Paul Merton and Alfred Nobel, no Paul Merton does not have an explosive delivery. The thing I see in common is this, they had to have a death before they realised what people really thought of them. Alfred Nobel read his own obituary, then he changed. Paul Merton only discovered after his parents’ death that they admired his success.

Which has set me thinking, what do people really think of us. Will they only tell the truth behind our backs, or do they have the balls to tell it as it is to our face. I once said of somebody that he was “shallow” then a week or so later when we were all down the pub, as was our company’s religion, I was confronted by him.

I heard you said I was shallow. Yes, and yes you are. Do you want another pint I asked, so I got a round in and no more was said. In those days 20 years ago and more the company was more like a social club, but, everybody did work very hard, very hard indeed.  We have all scattered to the 4 winds now, but I’m sure when we all look back we all look back not in anger, but with laughter.

When I left the company I’m told they had the largest leaving collection ever, though that could have been like Cecil D Milne’s funeral, not because he was liked but  everybody wanted to make sure he was really dead. However, as I look to my right I have a painted water-coloured copy of a Burne-Jones hanging on the wall, the angel is playing a flute, below is our piano which my eldest daughter plays on. We saved up for years to buy it, and now the fruits are being to show.

Why are people afraid to say what they mean and mean what they say?  Perhaps I was born blunt, or honest as I would say, there is nothing worse than asking people what they want to eat and then they change their mind, or moan afterwards that they really wanted something else.

Whenever the kettle is boiled in our house I’ll ask do my girls want a drink, tea, green tea or hot chocolate. So I don’t waste the gas. My youngest is the one who says no, then says yes just as I’ve sat down again at the computer, just as I’m in mid-sentence.

Though I should not complain as they always give me inspiration to write something new, 550 short stories, pieces like this is my tally so far. Take a peek at Amazon Kindle if you want to read some. Slice of life, as the NY poet Elaine Polin would say.

When you are dead and in your grave its only then you realise that a coffin and a grave is just like being in a submarine, such a small space to sleep in, though you’ll never again come up for air. In your grave you’ll hear the grass being mown above you. You’ll hear lovers make love in the sunshine above. The laughter of children as they steal the flowers from your grave before giving them to their teacher in the school next door to the cemetery.

The rain beats down on your headstone, tears merge with the rain, somebody has come to pay you a visit, only the sound is muffled six feet under, they should have left your hearing aid in when they put you in your box. They put shoes on your feet, but a hearing aid would have been more useful.

You strain to hear who is crying, who is lamenting your passing. Its none of your family, it’s the cleaner from your office, you gave her some advice to help her son read. Now he’s passed the 11 plus, all because you spent a few minutes chatting every night to his mum. She forced him to listen to Radio 4 and to read a quality newspaper, and then there was that book list you gave her. It was nothing really, but it was enough to change her son’s life. Just as BBC Radio 4 had changed your own life.

There’s laughter above, two drunks are sitting and spitting as they drink cider as they sit on your grave. You wouldn’t mind a drink yourself, it’s a bit boring just lying here all stiff 6 feet under, if only there was cable tv in the grave. At least you have time to think, and you are not rushed off your feet any more.

No need to visit my grave you had said, I’m with you, I’m in you, I’m your dad, I’m your husband, your boyfriend, your secret lover, your boss your friend or whatever else you may have been. No need to tramp though the rain to lay flowers. That’s what you said, but secretly you wish somebody came, its cold and lonely in a grave.

So on it goes for all eternity. If you were a Poet maybe people would come and you’d hear laughter and listen to your own poems being read back to you. But you were just you, and sometimes its only when you are dead that you know just how much or how little you were loved.

So love now, not tomorrow, because tomorrow you could be dead.