The Will

"I wish I knew what I know now," that always seems to be the cry of the aged figure once magnificent now on his deathbed. The clock hands perform the steadfast march as he ponders the meanings of meaning. You become the therapist you needed on your deathbed. I'm no different, unfortunately, but I must concede to something: I have always found the idea of a will strange. It functions more as a consolation prize to the living than any genuine appreciation of the life of soon-to-be-dead. Who has these thoughts, you wonder? Only a man like myself: grey, disillusioned and fatigued by the tyranny of age. My casket had been waiting; cancer was just the right nail to start. Yet I can not help but admire the universe; it was effective. 

In all honesty, I recognize the importance. A will is one of the few things that the dead can do for the living, providing warming security to combat the gloom of their fleeting existence. However, anything as important as that should be something more meaningful than mere physical possessions. The real things always will be more useful in the end, though never the most desired, and if I could portion out the love, passion, joy, sorrow, regret, and satisfaction I have witnessed over my sixty-five-year dance with mortality, I would. As usual, death leads, we merely follow. In their later years, they'll eventually learn that. All of us do, except does who do not anyway. There might be a benefit to premature death. 

Eight people supposedly have a claim to the remains of my life: my three sons, two daughters, a brother, a sister, and an ex-wife. I love them as much as they love me. I know them well; they know me as well. I doubt they worry about the portions not being enough. There are very few nerves that two hundred million dollars will not calm, even if the bureaucrats tax it into oblivion. They worry, however, that I also hate them as much as they hate me. How do I know this? Distance teaches people the true nature of their relationships. The silent room tells more than the busiest one. 

Where does it begin? Where does it end?

As it goes, children often act as a mirror to a parent, a clear reflection of the best and worst in yourself. It, therefore, becomes a glaring sign of mediocre parenting when they solely reflect the worst aspects of your character. Fortunately, they stole a fair amount of good from the other people in their lives, not enough, in my opinion. 

My two sons, Bryan and Tony, mid-30s, black and handsome like their father, both gifted and driven, both wise and learned, unique individuals with unique prospects. They're also boisterous, close-minded, angry young men. Bryan is the more successful one as of now, the revered and ever sought-after entrepreneur of the town, but I think Tony has the potential to achieve much greater success. The life of a fiction writer, novice, and expert alike, has never been an instantly prestigious one. He has everything every renowned novelist needs: pain, experience, and a neglectful father. It worked excellent for Kafka. 

My siblings, Cecilia and Joshua, were the other pieces in my familial puzzle. Cecilia is pure, strong-minded, and honest, yet her innocence leaves her open to manipulation by the cloaked wizards hidden in the shadows. But she has always been a determined soul, for better or worse. Knowing her, it was for worse. Joshua is, in many ways, the black sheep of the family not because he was faulty, but because he failed to pretend he was not. Fate smiled more for you than I. Your children still care about you. Cherish the moments; seldom do they last after they discover they do not have to. 

Sarah and Fiona, my daughters, are both ideal children, attentive and helpful when needed, focused when wanted, and always endearing. They've both grown into women of their own. That's my perspective as a proud father. But just as a person, I saw they could also be spoiled, abusive, and entitled in the extremes, yet timid and uncertain under pressure. Every person tends to be four different people: one for their lover, one for their family and friends, another for a stranger, and one for themselves. Never assume you know who someone is. Know the version they let you see well enough to see through the lies. 

Erin, my adopted son, and I have the best version of a foster-parent adopted-child relationship I could imagine, a subtle one teetering between passive love and outspoken indifference, as deadening as it sounds. At any rate, he is not an enemy of mine, but he tries his best to be. In that sense, he is my biological son. 

Then there's Cynthia, the ex-wife. Endurance. That's the most suitable description of our time together. The long wait for the proper time to leave. Was she a horrible person? Who's to say? Who's to know? I am no exception. Everyone is flawed. We are all garbage; some are just more garbage than the rest.

The memory of our marriage is a blur. I look into that past, and I find brief times of happiness wedged between long periods of bold hatred. If it were a film, it would be a horror-comedy. It was almost comedic how much we scared each other. 

In our quiet moments, we loved each other for who we were as opposed to what we felt like, but we lived too loud for those to last. Yet fifty years later, I still retreat to those moments as I lay on my cold bed in this emptying mansion dictating my scattered thoughts to the young nurse noting my words. 

Where has the time gone? I wish I knew. 

On the matter of the will, the lion's share of the bounty will go to various charities across the globe, a final but most likely fruitless attempt at leaving a mark. If I am to be sincere, I don't much care for the causes they preach, nor do I desire to be educated on such matters. Acceptance is sufficient. The rest is to be shared evenly between everyone mentioned. It will arrive through my estate attorney in four days. I would've passed by then. 

I cannot pretend your lives would not have been better without my presence, nor can I admit that mine would be worse without yours, so consider this a formal farewell. I apologize for my wrongs and accept responsibility for my rights. Thank you. You're welcome. 

To everyone on this list, congratulations. To everyone not on this list, congratulations. You are all losers.