The Passing Parade

The above title was the "Subject" line in an email from my father this morning. He was forwarding the obituary of our old pediatrician (age 82) who made housecalls and who retired to South Carolina at the ripe old age of 61.

Here is my response in its entirety:

I make housecalls. Does that mean I can retire at 61?

On with the parade...of life, that is. Think of it this way: *We* are the ones in the parade, and as we go marching along, eventually others will step out of the line. We may stop for a moment at the roadside to bid them adieu; perhaps linger a short (or longer) while as we ponder the distance we've come together, the things we've seen together, how we'll miss them as we navigate the road ahead, and how much they would have enjoyed the sights yet to come. But we always keep marching right along.

Some people spend a lot of time complaining, "When is this parade ever going to end?" I think the luckiest among us come to realize that the parade is the adventure; that there is no destination, and those who are always rushing to get ahead in it are like little kids complaining "Are we there yet?" It never ends. Some day, those we love will stop for a moment at the side of the road and remember us too. If we really love them, we'll want them to get right back into that glorious parade. They'll miss us, but they'll go marching off down the road without us.

And once the parade is out of sight, we don't really know what else might come along.

Sometimes the creative juices just flow early in the morning; right along with the coffee.