“There ain’t no answer.
There ain’t gonna be any answer.
There never has been an answer.
There’s your answer.”
— Gertrude Stein
Running past a memorial service 18 times, I have a lot of questions. Who was Bob? What happened to him? Was he really a kind soul, always with a smile on his face? Are these people oblivious to social distancing? What if you could teach a chihuahua to sing?
They laugh, they cry, they eat muffins, they write messages to Bob on balloons with Sharpies. Bob would have liked it, I bet. Black T-shirts and shorts, stories and Starbucks. A lovely wake, even though I’m not quite awake yet.
Near the end, they release their balloons to greet him in heaven, which apparently is in the grass on the other side of the pond.
I gather as many balloons as I can in an effort to save the birds that live here. But it’s futile.
Next week, the birds will have a funeral for Bob the Bird, who they will agree always had a smile on his beak until he died from eating the remnants of a misplaced tribute.
What’s the answer? There ain’t no answer. Just little loops in the cycle of life till you’re done and you hit the stop button on the Great Garmin in the Sky.
RIP, Bob. I hope you liked your balloons. Please tell Bob the Bird I said hey.
Life is funny …