Famous Last Words : Page 1

�I have never dealt with death before. I have dealt with life though. Life in it�s sweet essence, and life in its darkest times. Many have said to me that I haven�t lived long enough to know what life is, but they are wrong. Time, and life don�t possess any specific places or signs. Someone who says that one has to be a certain age to know about living, they prove that they truly haven�t lived. These people were always the people that were older than me. Older than me by anywhere from a day to a century.

To me, life is a gift with a big bow, in a neatly wrapped box, that rattles when you shake it. As you start to unwrap the exquisite present, the paper gives way to cardboard. Unwrapping still, you unveil a plain brown box with masking tape at the seams. No longer the gift you want. No longer the gift I want. Taking the tape off would only prove to show packing peanuts. Within those thousand or so pieces of foam is another box. A box hidden from all view. All view that is, for those who aren�t willing enough to unwrap the beautiful gift, cut the tape, and remove the stuffing. Inside this box would be whatever you wish to put in it. As for me, I put my life in it. The life that was hidden from all to see. That only existed in my mind, my world. Everyone can quote verbatim the saying, �Great things come in small packages.� This quote was meant for the people who have something special, hidden from view.

I feel that some things in life can�t be held in the tiny box. Only the most precious moments that one cherishes are able to enter the small container. The other memories and other items are used as packing material. Without such material, the contents of the precious box would be broken. The rough times, the sad times, and the moments that one would want to forget are each significant in their own way. These times make up the foam packing.

My mother was one of these people who held a life that was only accessible to the inquiring mind. I remember asking her numerous times about what she was like when she was my age. Her words would open up doors that led into my mind and were stored as memories. The passing of stories from one generation to another. I dreamed of telling my kids about what their grandmother was like. Telling them about her smile, the way her face would light up when she was proud. I imagined what it would be like when I had children of my own, children to have and to comfort. To share a tear with when times were rough. To share a smile with when times were joyous. Just to have a child to cradle in my arms after it was born and say, �I�m a dad! I�m a dad!� I love you mom.

I always wondered what my father looked like when I was born. I wanted to know what he looked like when he gazed upon my face for the first time. I don�t know much about my father before he was married. His life was mostly kept wrapped tightly, only opening the lid once in a while for a peek. I can remember my dad coming home from his job, tired and worn. I always vowed never to look like that when I grew up. I have always kept that promise. I love you dad.

Growing up for me was a endless adventure. I cannot recall most of my childhood actions, so I rely on the memories of my parents. I never grew bored about hearing those stories about what strange insects I ate, or what things I broke. I remember what my parents words almost exactly. Time after time I listened to my parents tell me these stories of my childhood.

Once I could start remembering, my memories seemed to be real. Not like the pictures my mom or dad would paint for me. These were real memories. Memories of meeting my first friend. My first day of school. I remember the first day well.