What If?

They came to the cemetery in black limousines and mourning clothes, hiding their happy faces under black veils. I was too young to understand. There were men, women, and children, young and old, and a priest saying something about what a wonderful man he, my grandpa, was. They all stood around while the diggers dug up the grave and brought out the coffin. It was made of highly polished mahogany with carved brass handles. Several men carried it on their shoulders and loaded it into the hearse. Then they all shook hands heartily and got into their cars and drove off.

The family followed the hearse home and they took the old man out of the coffin and laid him in the big bed, propped up on a huge white fluffy pillow. I had never met my grandfather before. He looked so old and wrinkled. The whole family stood around anxiously awaiting the undying.

Grandma sat on a chair by the big bed, looking better than she had in a long time. The room was quiet except for a whisper or two and all eyes were fixed on the thin body that lay perfectly still under the sheet. Suddenly the old man coughed violently and opened his eyes. The woman brought her face right up to his and shouted at him through the cough: “Milton, Milton, it’s me Marge. You’ll be better in a few minutes.” He convulsed and continued coughing. His eyes were a filmy gray and had a far away look. “Milton” the old woman kept on shouting into his face “we’re all here waiting for you. Look, even Sonny is here”. She nudged me standing by the night table. “Come on Sonny, waive at Grandpa”. I hesitated but everybody sort of leaned forward and looked sideways at the old man and waived at him as through the window of a train.

When the coughing subsided grandpa’s eyes cleared and shifted around the room, recognizing and acknowledging each one separately with a barely perceptible nod of the head. Then his lips quivered and he opened his mouth, straining his neck. The old woman put her hand on his forehead. “Don’t try to speak Milton. There’ll be plenty of time later on. You rest now.” Then, turning to the family, she signaled them with her head and they all filed out of the room whispering excitedly.

It was only a few days before Grandpa was out of bed and ambling around the house with his cane, shouting cantankerously at Grandma, or sitting by the stove with his reading glasses and his paper, sleeping. He was bald and had false teeth and a hearing aid, and he suffered from a bad case of arthritis. But it was alright. He knew his arthritis would get better and completely disappear within a few years. He also knew that his hearing would improve and, in time, his hair would grow in and he would acquire a certain amount of good looks as he grew younger.

Then there was Marge and she was growing younger too. She stopped playing Mah Jong and going to garage sales and took up jogging and tennis. She began to enjoy the things she had as she had less and less of them. She got into fussing with the house and the kids and scolding them and spoiling them, and nagging Milton at the same time. And he couldn’t wait until the kids were unborn so that he and Marge would be free to travel. They would go to Paris and Rome. Oh! Yes they would! He was sure of it because he had seen the two of them in front of the Eiffel Tower and on the steps of the Coliseum in photographs that were in their family album. And the nagging, well, it didn’t matter because they both knew that soon they would be young and good-looking and in love, so very much in love.

It’s interesting to think of life in reverse like that. You’d look forward to “the good old days” because they were in front of you, not behind; to being young, energetic and alive. You would know where you were going but not where you had been. You’d forget the past and remember the future. In time, you’d go to school to unlearn the lessons and remove the clutter from your brain. You would become less practical . . and more idealistic. You’d untie the knots of your accumulated experience and ease your psychological load, becoming lighter and more childlike in the process.

One day you’d find yourself at your own three year old birthday party and see the world through the glitter of the three candles on your birthday cake. There’d be things to discover, toys to play with, and rosies to ring around.

At the last, you’d wind up at your mother’s breast, wrapped in warm blankets of love. Isn’t that a better scenario than the one we’re stuck with?

When you add it all up, whether forward or in reverse, the percentage of happiness remains the same. But it plays better in reverse and no one cries at births, they just hand out cigars.

Jay Frankston
Little River, CA 95456
wlp@mcn.org