Death: the wrong channel

I had just settled down with my laptop when I heard the firm, friendly “shave-and-a-haircut:-two-bits” knock. The people on this section of the street are very close, organizing everything from block parties to snow removal. So, thinking it was a neighbour, I answered the door.

It was a local political candidate. His hope, he said, is to tighten legislation against possession of guns. He rhymed off the length of his party’s proposed sentences, and named a woman who has recently lost a second son to street violence. Then he asked if I would like a lawn sign. Not bothering to explain that I was merely the catsitter and this wasn’t my home, I said I wasn’t sure; but we shook hands, and off he went.

I can barely imagine a woman losing two sons; just one death was enough to make my family disintegrate. I was 10 when my oldest brother was struck by a car while trying to fulfill  a dream, a long-distance bicycle trip. My mother drooped and faded; my father disappeared into his work. My remaining brothers spent as little time at home as possible. Not allowed to hitch-hike to the village, I withdrew into myself. A quiet, paradoxical hopelessness took root. Mustn’t get too good at anything; mustn’t aspire; mustn’t shine; that way lies death.

I once chuckled at a birthday card depicting a hilltop guru explaining his secret to longevity: “Refrain from dying.”  The other day, while washing the dishes, I recalled that card and wondered if I’ve spent my life adhering to the corollary, to whit: To avoid death, refrain from living. 

The knob was hard to turn, but it made a satisfying chunk-chunk sound when you did. Two, Four, and Seven were Buffalo; Six was CBC; Eleven was CHCH Hamilton; and Thirteen was Kitchener-Waterloo. But the other channels rendered fuzzy grey snowstorms that said “Shhhhh!” In my preschool years, I much preferred the non-fuzzy channels. How can I develop the remainder of my life into one of those, a peopled channel, a live channel? After all, I’m not, in fact, dead yet; how can I make the best use of that happy little fact, the fact of my being alive?