Flatbed

Last night I had the strange experience of being able to walk in a relatively straight line from my place of work up 6th avenue to the bus stop instead of having to bob and weave through the writhing mass of bag-clutching holiday celebrants as I have to each December. They’ve all gone home, or back underground, or to wherever they go to wait for the warm weather. January doesn’t have much going for it, but one thing it does have in its favor is the lack of crowds in the neighborhood around my office.

Settling into my seat as my homeward-bound bus eased across 50th street last night I looked to my right and saw the Rock Center Christmas tree still big as life and all lit up. The crowds, however, were gone. The tree belonged to the locals now for what little time it had left before being mulched and used in the city’s parks.

The bus stopped at the mid-block traffic light and I began to think.

It seemed like only a few days ago that I had first seen this year’s tree as I typically see it: wrapped in scaffolding with workers adding the lights that would be ogled, photographed, and televised innumerable times over the next several weeks. Then, nothing for the rest of 2008. I never got near the thing, at least not outdoors. I had one close encounter from down below in the concourse but I couldn’t actually see the tree from down there. As usual, it was only when the crowds have receded that I got my look at the big stick over the rink.

Man, the holidays fly by quicker every year, don’t they?

I wonder how many people take the time over the holidays to really appreciate what they have. And what I mean by that is do people ever stop to consider that it is distinctly possible that the Christmas they just had is their last. Or maybe it’s the last one they’ll have with a friend, or a family member, or whoever. I suspect most of us don’t since, as the cliché goes, death is the last taboo. Not to me though. I think about death all the time in terms of things like: what day of the week will I die? If I’m still working, I hope it’s a Monday because I’d rather get out of a whole week of work than miss out on one final weekend. Or what will the date be? Can you imagine what it would be like if you knew what date you would die? How would you mark that date every year? Think about it: if you’re more than a year old you have already lived on the pre-anniversary of your own demise. Perhaps a tradition would arise that would replace birthdays where people would have parties on the day after their death pre-anniversary since they knew they were good for another year since they survived the day!

That would be pretty damn cool, I think. After all, we already have two “survival” days each year. What else is the point of celebrating a birthday and New Year’s? New Year’s is the day where everyone says “whew, we made it through another orbit. Things will be different during the next one, I bet! Let’s get loaded!” A birthday is a marking of personal time, a note that you survived another year since your birth. My paternal grandmother died on her birthday. She didn’t know it, but every year she was celebrating the pre-anniversary of her death. Cool? Or creepy?

Whatever you think, celebrate as often as you can while you’re still able. You never know which party will be the last.

The light turned green, and as the bus continued I took one last look at the tree. Then I looked to my left. There, waiting silently across the street from the skating rink was a large flatbed truck.

It was the flatbed truck that was going to carry the Rock Center tree away to be mulched.