May 28, 2021 Commentary from the sofa

May 28, 2021 Commentary from the sofa: Does a body “Rest in Peace” after a cremation? For those who cremate their dead, is it fair to use the “RIP” epithet? I wonder. For many who cremate their dead there is an accompanying belief in the soul which remains and does never rest until united with a greater Good. I ponder because in one of my digital networks there were many RIPs stated, in deep grief, as we lost one of our own – from IIT – a person who clearly meant a lot to many of us. And to the best of our knowledge the disease was not involved in the felling which removed a slice from our collective narrative reality. A newspaper person. Does a part of reality disappear when a journalist can no longer write? That particular narrow slice of reality disappears forever, because there may not be anyone else in the World who knew the stories that the fallen was pursuing, had swimming in the head, to be put down on paper. Alas. We may never know. Even though I remain listed in the Board of Advisors, I have no one to advise. Or as my son reminded me, I waited too long, pushed back making the call for yet another day. And now, there is just ashes. Ashes don’t take calls. Ashes disperse in the wind, as bits fly off in the gust before the dust hits the water. For that miniscule moment, from the urn to the Ganges, some ashes fly away just as quanta of memory, of stories, circulate in the head and then settle into the river, further downwind. When the wind dies down, the memories disappear. When the storm is gone we do not remember the fallen trees. When the masks come off we do not recall the anguished calls for O2. Memories we block away until we hurriedly have to look back as another crisis hits and we wonder what did we do the last time. The last time, I attended the open casket funeral, in Pennsylvania, the only one in the room who knew the man in the casket as a boy. Others in the room knew a distinguished professor, I remembered the child who invited me to sit next to him on the first day of a new school – class three section B – the stupid kids’ section – and we became friends until I stood by the casket and uttered a confused little speech of stories of a childhood that seemed so out to context. So, this time, I will not be attending. There will be others though. Others with whom I connected after nearly four decades, I spoke to someone with whom I had last spoken in 1984. The disconnect of the death of one connects the many living. Perhaps the pandemic will do the same. The death of many will connect the living, while we will remember, though in a little out of context way “the day the music died,” as remembered by Don McLean. Many many musics have died in the last year, some closer to the heart than others.