Too Young To Die, Too Old Not To Think About Death
I was on my way to the post office to drop off some letters when I decided to take the local 25-cent bargain shuttle instead. Sure, I could walk the 1.2 miles from my house on 6th street all the way up Indiana and down 1st, but the better part of the unseasonable cold weather penetrated my bones and hesitation set in. The stop in question is located across the street from Robert L. Stevenson Middle School on 666 Indiana Street, a small shack of house converted into a small business specializing in making grave markers.
I had never really looked at the grave markers until that day because the bus was taking longer than it usually does. Serendipity, or boredom. The empty smiles engraved into marble looked back to me and they made me feel hollow, as if they had some sort of foresight that I was too blind to see. They belonged to countless folks unaware of their own mortality, who were now one with that same foresight they could suddenly afford.
There were two things that tripped me out. First, that this was an unfortunate corner to place a bus stop. The eerie sight of all that death made me reconsider just how far 1.2 miles really was – as if I could outpace the cold with the right pair of swift feet. Secondly, there is a preschool center just a couple houses down. It is located at the end of the corner in an avocado green structure. The more I thought about the ironic bookends of life and death, the more I realized that this was an awful location for the manufacturing of cemetery grave markers. I mean, place yourself in the shoes of a doting parent as you are about to drop off your child at his or her first day in preschool, when all of a sudden you glance over your shoulder and see the grave marker for a three year-old? Now, I will be the first to admit that there is not necessarily a “right” place. I would be hard pressed to find a “black or gray” district where you can get your funeral needs met, but maybe something a little bit closer to the cemeteries would be ideal.
Just then, the bus finally arrived and I put my fare in the slot reserved for quarters. I caught myself looking back as the shuttle rolled away at the engraved messages on the markers for beloved fathers, brothers, mothers, sisters, sons, daughters, uncles and grandfathers and even though the words became smaller as we gained distance – the message was still prominent enough to make an impact.
We made it all the way down to 3rd Street and Indiana Street by the Jack-in-the-Box restaurant and I began to ponder, wondering if these grieving people really mean what they are paying for. I mean, I think I am a good person, even good enough to be missed, but I do not think that I am or will ever be truly beloved. I think I have reached a point in my life where I have met those who will end up mourning me. Everyone from here on out will only be a spectator. I got to wondering what my own grave marker would look like and here is what I think it will read:
Oscar Salvador Barajas
Born: March 4, 1977
Died: To be determined, unless you know something that I do not.
Brother. Godfather. Chronic procrastinator. Although he was not beloved, he was a decent enough fellow. That said – I cannot believe he made us drive all the way out here for this, on a Saturday morning of all days. Maybe he was not that decent of a fellow.
On second thought, perhaps I should look into cremation.
Follow Oscar Barajas on Twitter @Oscarcoatl
