Every life is a book. Only the finished ones have a back cover.
* * *
My phone rang while I was
watching the Bruins beat the Rangers the other night, and my immediate thought
was: it’s my brother Gary calling from a bar in Cleveland where he’s watching the game and
cheering them on. It wasn’t, of
course. Gary ’s been gone for two and a half
years. But for a good three seconds,
until I looked to see who was calling, he was right there. And I knew exactly what he was going to say.
And that response is how
we all deceive ourselves about the dead.
Since every life is a
book, and the finished ones have a back cover, then every possible response we can have to
the author of that book is contained within its pages. We say, “She would have loved that.” We say, “He would have called me the second
he heard about that.” We say, “I know
exactly what she would have said.”
It’s a lie. It’s a comforting lie, but it’s still a
lie. And the lie, and the comfort, are
contained in the same word: “know.”
We don’t know. In a book with no back cover, the writer is
still creating, and the story could become anything. We fill the pages of our own book, and watch
the pages of our friends’ books, and we’re engaged, not because we know what’s
going to happen next, but because we don’t.
I only know what my
brother Gary
was going to say about the Bruins because I remember what he said during other
calls. Which means that what I think I
know is an echo, not a source. That’s the comfort: Gary has become finite. In physics terms, his probability wave has
collapsed, and any chance of him acting outside the realm of possibility
has vanished. Everything is an equation
now. If the Bruins win, Gary calls and says X. If the Red Sox lose, Gary calls and says Y.
And that’s the lie. Because if Gary was alive, there would be no equal
sign. X and Y would represent
probability, not reality. The possibility of Gary would be infinite, until he created his
own reality. Until he wrote something on
a blank page that could be anything. And
yes, it might have been what I was expecting him to write. But I know—and this is the knowledge that is
not a comfort—I know that it would not be, and could never be, exactly
what I was expecting.
The one thing all the dead
take with them when they leave is the ability to surprise us.
In a book with a back
cover, there are no surprises. Just
echoes. No potential. Just history.
I think I know what Gary would have said about
the Bruins winning. I don’t. He would have said something I can’t even
imagine. That’s what made him
unique. That’s what made him Gary .
I think I know what my
friend Meir would have said about Silver Linings Playbook. I don’t.
He would have said something I can’t even imagine. That’s what made him unique. That’s what made him Meir.
The loss of any one of us
cheapens reality, because there is one less set of eyes to perceive it, and one
less mind to translate that vision for the rest of us.
I think I know what my
friend Michal would say about the Avengers movie. Or what my father would say about the play I’m
writing now. Or what my mother would say
about my niece’s boyfriend. It’s a
lie. I don’t know anything. But I say I do—I have to say I do—or the
grief would be unbearable.
* * *
All this is written in my
book. And one day that book will have a
back cover.
5 comments:
really beautifully said matthew, thank you.
I would like an autographed copy please.
may there be many more pages and chapters before your book has a back cover... beautiful, as always.
Wow dude. That was great.
Adore you
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