I don’t seem to miss living people much. Sometimes I might think, “It’d be cool to see such and such,” or “We haven’t gotten to hang out with old guy and her for a while,” but situations like that don’t seem strong enough for me to miss someone. For me, at least, it seems that missing someone doesn’t actually start until there’s no chance that I can remedy it.
If there’s anyone living I want to talk to, I can just call them or text them; if there’s anyone living I want to see, I can set it up.
I can’t do that with dead people. I can’t call up and ask my dad one of the two hundred or so questions I’ve realized I should have asked him. If you were to ask me what questions I would ask my father if I could ask ask my father questions today, this would be my reply: “All of them. And then, when he got up to go, I’d tell him to sit down, that I wasn’t finished yet, but not mad or anything like Tom Cruise talking to Colonel Jessup.”
I can’t call up either of my Spanish Maestras with the myriad of historical and cultural questions that come up; as they are the only two Spanish professors I had, I myself am at the top of my line of Spanish students and speakers; conversely, I am also at the bottom. They both died with much insight I could have used. Now there’s just me, and sometimes we’re selfish.
I can’t call up Rene and ask him if he wants to cruise the East End and listen to songs that will either make him happy or sad depending on the day and not have cancer.
But you, you’re there, and it’s entirely too easy to get in touch when we need to in this digital age. I’ll Skype if I need.