THE CLUB OF I 'CAN'T REMEMBER'

Have I lost my way? Is this the game I choose to play? Will it forever be, day by day, a life astray until they cart me away and I descend to the final end where I depend totally on those trained to ease my way into the nothingness of empty loneliness?

I'm a dues paying member of the Club of I Can't Remember. I will live forever in regret of what might have been and what escapes me now. I live in the Community of Lost Opportunity, way station to a long vacation in the Land of Last Resort. In short, welcome to Final View. We have been expecting you.

Take a number, sit and wait while our trained staff helps you navigate the cessation and inevitable separation from your life and mate.

As I entered the building, wheelchair bound, I found a sign which said: "This is Not a Nursing Home. It's a Rehearsing Room."
"Rehearse?" I asked. "Rehearse for what? Are we going to have a show?"

I saw a coffin on the floor. I saw a sign on the door: "Death Training." Need I say more? I knew what I was in there for. "You mean I have to learn to die? Why?"

"Have you ever died before?" the pusher asked. Before I could say another word, I heard from the coffin a deadly roar. The acting corpse began to snore. The wheelchair bearer pinched my nose. "Wake up! This is the Scene of Sorrow. You don't die until tomorrow."

The corpse climbed out of the coffin. It was a scene I'd see often. "OK," he said with a sardonic grin. "It's your turn. Climb in."