IN THE DEPARTURE LOUNGE

Well, it looks like I've got here at last, the Departure Lounge. Funny really how things have turned out. In the past, where I've spent so much of my time, I often joked when I found myself in a take-off area, especially when the uniformed staff passed through on their way to duty positions. "Got to trust them, boys," I would say, "your life is in their hands". Then everyone laughed, said I was a character. Not so much laughter now. Too busy. For a start everyone wants to make sure they've left the right forwarding address. It can't be all that long before they come to collect not just our goods and chattels, but us. So we quietly get on with things, the all-important "last things."In the meantime, I count my blessings.

I'm quite comfortable here in this Retirement Home. True I could improve the food so long as I was not asked to actually cook it. And I have many thoughts for general improvements, but I have closer concerns that seem to matter more, even if they actually don't.


Crowded around me this night are those I call friends, my books. They seem to have known that I would write this piece tonight for they have come close to me showing off names, titles, even dates. Some shout out insults to me like, coward, and fraud. They want to know why I've spent so little time with them and yet dare to call them friends. I don't know what to say. I may not have listened to  them all that often, but I wouldn't be without them for the world. And I'm very glad they're here with me now, in the Departure Lounge.


I don't know how long more my face will fit in here either,  with staff and passing staff, remembering how I once was, things I said and how I've changed. I've even come to wonder if it matters. Even my books. Let's be honest. Some I came across by accident and they seem all the better for it. They came to me bearing the names of strangers wanting only to be friends, eager to sit beside me as I read. Perhaps now it is my turn. Perhaps I too should leave my friends to the flow of chance, toss in the odd photo or postcard from days gone by and let what mystery may happen simply happen. Who knows who will make what of it?
So last words about me, by me. An epitaph no  less:

 Alas for me,

But I must own it so,

That in my time, 

I showed my self of brittle and uneasy substance made.

Time laboured hard

To work me true 
 And left me,

Now his measuring sands complete their course,

This one prevailing hope,

That in another day

There yet may be,

Some,

To remember me

With forgiveness 
and with love.