And the Band Played On

But, as a grownup, I know that I must adjust to the idea of doing nothing. Let some twisted sicko get the last laugh. At least I am on this side of the grass.

But what is remarkable to me, in my morbidly curious observation of the Guest Book, is how little activity there is. Besides the two moronic, repetitive notes from Sheila, and the one from Moira, and the mysterious three little words, there is little else. Five other passages. With the exception of one, they are from neighborhood friends of the family. Not one note from a best friend, a co-worker, a neighbor from the neighborhood where he and Sandy had a home with their children, a kid J. coached, friends of the girls. Nothing.

The one exception was from a classmate and family friend, presumably from the grade school at the end of the block. And what he wrote surprised me. He mentioned what a lovely service it was and what a nice touch it was to have handed out Milky Way bars to the people who came to pay their respects. The writer noted J.'s life long love of Milky Ways and how Halloween always reminds him of holidays with the Cullens. 

Say what?

J. loved Milky Ways?  Who knew?  Booze, yes. Cigarettes, certainly.  Meatloaf, most definitely. But I don't think I ever observed him eat a Milky Way bar. Ever.

Was this clown making this crap up, assuming that the candy bar had some significance when really, Sheila had discovered that her diabetic mother had been hoarding them and she thought this was a good way to get rid of them? Or had I been completely asleep at the wheel and never noticed J.'s preference for the darn things?  It's not like he ever bought them or rifled through Moira's Halloween loot bag or Easter basket to find them.  I'll never know.

And I realize, I'll never care. What was, was. And it ceased to be. And so did its relevance.

Already, his passing has become old news. As I come across contact information of shared acquaintances, I only briefly think, "I wonder if they know?" and then dismiss the thought and any notion of being the one to tell them. If J. had run them out of his life too, then they would care even less than I do.  And they would not get a call from his daughters.

So my life with J. has come full circle as only my iPod can explain. J. has passed from "Along Comes Mary" (The Association) to "The Boy Is Mine" (Brandy and Monica) to "Beautiful Liar" (Beyonce and Shakira) to "Bills, Bills, Bills" (Destiny's Child) to "All You Ever Do Is Bring Me Down" (The Mavericks) to "Common Disaster" (Cowboy Junkies) to "Cry" (Faith Hill) to "Misery" (Maroon 5) "What Have I Done to Deserve This?" (Petshop Boys) to "Wake Up Call" (Maroon 5) to "Strong Enough" (Cher) to "She's Going" (English Beat) to "She's Not There" (The Zombies) to "My Heart Belongs to Me" (The Barbara) to "Over You" (Daughtry) to "Someone That I Used to Love" (Natalie Cole) to "Somebody That I Used to Know" (Gotye) to "Life After You" (Daughtry) to "Bury My Lovely" (October Project). And finally, to "Just Another Day" (John Secada)

Quite a playlist. I may just delete them all. Start over. Just like I did two years ago.