Burn Rubber

Something’s always ending. How do we say goodbye to it? Here are some thoughts on the subject.

“See you on down the road,” she said.
It was her ‘goodbye’ to us, this widow of 82.
She’s moving to Florida, a conclusion, a beginning, something new.

Her farewell hints of a continual connectivity that transcends words.
Reading between the lines is an art.

We all say goodbye, every day, in many ways.
Hello to this, goodbye to that. Opposite sides of the same coin.
Some sad, some glad, some without emotion or remembrance.

Just this morning I said goodbye to the garbage.
‘Good riddance’ requires no interpretation.

‘Burn rubber’ was 1950’s high school slang, equivalent to ‘see ya later.’
It was popular long before high fives and fist bumps.
Drag racing was illegal then. Who cared? Boys live life on the edge.

Long strips of burnt rubber that lined lonely rural roads bear testimony.
To ‘get rubber’ in every gear was a Saturday-night South Georgia high. ‘So long’ to that.

Admit it…a certain sense of finality lingers with goodbyes.
Like waving from the back door steps, that last look as relatives drive off.
It’s a final ‘let-go’ before time separates, sorts and sequesters all things.

Still, the spirit lingers, suffuses itself into the details of day,
While we wait for the next Hello.

The Hopi Indians have neither concept of, nor words for ‘past and future.’
They live in the perennial reality of the present, the ever-present ‘I Am.’
No adios or adieu, no ciao or au revoir, no catch you later or hasta la vista.

Even arch enemies, Germans and Russians, ‘aufwiedersehen’ and ‘nakhvamdis.’
Somehow ‘see you later’ is hope for a reconnection, for good or ill, sooner or later.

My father unexpectedly said goodbye to part of his left arm.
He was 14. A shotgun blast delivered the valediction.
He said even after 61 years he still felt the presence of his forearm.

Goodbyes are not permanent. They leave memories as memorials.
They diffuse into a hallowed essence that lives with us.

As a youth I once nursed a baby fox squirrel back to health.
I named it Foxy, of course. Thought we’d be close companions.
Built it a nice cage, a five-star resort for the rodent. Fed it like royalty.

It grew. One day it bit the finger that fed it. The love affair ended.
Foxy’s wild nature ruled. We said goodbye. Foxy never looked back. Me either.

On the deck outside my office is a hibiscus. The flowers are yellow. And ephemeral.
I nurture it like I did Foxy. It’s more appreciative I think. How do I know?
Blossoms are new every morning. Yesterday’s blossoms die, fall off.

Nature’s way of saying goodbye to the old, hello to the new.
Nature has its own concept of ‘I Am.’

Yesterday I watched the last rays of the day’s sunshine creep over the pool.
It reminded me we’re all just spectators in the Grand Pageant.
The twilight breeze blew the lines of an ancient poem through the pine needles.

“The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on; nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”

Who’s to say one goodbye is better than another. I have mine, you have yours.
Smiles, words without voice, often work when words won’t come.
And the farewell of ‘I Love You’ works wonders. But that’s just me.

It’s hard to say Goodbye without having the Hope we will again say Hello.
So, catch you on the flip side or see you on down the road. Burn rubber, y’all.

Bud Hearn
July 26, 2013