Talking with a friend in south Florida about some of her clients, one of whom she nicknamed “Sybil,” and, for the protection of many I won’t detail here (but suffice it to hear that multiple personality disorder may be more myth than fact, except in rare cases like this one), I wonder what to do next.

My grandparents built a house in North Port, Florida, in 1964.

So did my next-door neighbours (built a house in Big Cove, Alabama, in 1964, that is).

My grandparents and my father are dead.

So, too, one of my next-door neighbours.

My mother considers selling the house in Florida.

The surviving next-door neighbour was convinced by his real estate agent to sell his song for a dance, or less, and he did.

From the death of his spouse to the sale of his house in less than a month.

Makes me question the integrity of the real estate agent (the agency is Keller Williams — more on that later) and/or the sanity of my neighbour.

My mother has been advised not to make major life decisions until six months after her husband is dead.

Someone didn’t tell my neighbour the same thing.

Sure, he wants to be closer to his children and grandchildren.

I know he’ll be lonely without his dear wife.

My wife and I will miss seeing her in her yard, dressed in long-sleeved shirt and long pants during the heat of summer, a beekeeper’s headgear protecting her from sun and insects.

I am winding down from a once-in-a-decade holiday trip with my wife a few months after my father died, after which I spent a week with my mother and sister going through the house in Florida where my grandparents savoured their retirement years year-round and my parents enjoyed their retirement years as snowbirds.

Meanwhile, people have killed each other by the hundreds, if not thousands, thousands of babies have been born, businesses opened/closed and other aspects of our planet’s lifecycle — killing and eating each other to survive — moving along as it always has and always will.

In the meantime (why don’t I say “in the happytime,” instead?), I examine historical documents to prepare myself for a future filled with humour, satire, comedy, tragedy and words.

Last night, I had a dream.

My mother, sister and I sat down at a large table.  Two or three other large tables were spread around the restaurant where people were sitting down in order to get a good view of Dad opening his birthday presents.  Several people walked up and described the special, unique gift they had brought/made and hidden in a back room so my father wouldn’t see when he walked in for the surprise birthday party.

I looked through the gifts, marveling at the personal touches so many people had put into their gifts, feeling a sense of anticipation rise in me at seeing Dad come back and open so he would know how special he was to so many in his life.

Then, the realization of reality crept into my dream world and I woke up shaking, my neck and back muscles tense, my face twitching.

Dang it, I miss Dad!

My subculture wants me to believe Dad is out there somewhere watching over me (i.e., heaven) but I don’t care about some imaginary space that defies gravity.

I want to share time and space here with my father now, talk about the U.S. Navy material I found in his father’s (my grandfather’s) sea chest, ask him what he remembers about growing up during WWII, go fishing one more time, hit golf balls into the park and retrieve them, look at new sports cars and wonder how people can afford them.

But life doesn’t work that way.

We are born, maybe get married, maybe have children, and then we die.

I have lived into that part of the lifecycle that I never wanted to face again after my best friend/girlfriend died when we were 10 years old.

Forty years later, I’m facing the same emotions I couldn’t handle as a preteen, when I dove into my Boy Scout training, schoolwork and marching/concert/jazz band practice to hide the mess of thoughts inside me.

Where do I hide now?

Am I alone as I feel?

Do I even exist?

Does any of this matter?

Today is an imaginary time period created to account for the rotation of Earth on its axis while tilted.

Tomorrow is another such imaginary time period.

I shall let my imagination take me into a world of stories where writers pluck plots and characters, harvesting them at just the right time to entertain themselves (and, perhaps, others later).

Storytelling is my comfort food, a habit I turned to when I was 10 and didn’t have anyone to share the pain of losing my girlfriend with, how I compensated for the fact that the universe is neutral to my existence as a temporary conflux of states of energy.

In the near-term (both time and space), we appear to exist through experimentation from birth that shows an environment of similar groups of states of energy responding to us.

From a great distance, we do not exist — we do not move this planet through our individual actions, although collectively we influence the condition of the planetary environment around us.

Most of us only care about our local conditions, our circle of influence.

But if I don’t care, if I see conditions — past, present and future — that are, practically, independent of the existence of me, what then?

The story continues, with or without me…