By Cliff Simon                                                                                                

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my Soul to keep
If I should die before I 'wake,
I pray the Lord my Soul to take.

As a kid, I had no idea what God was, or a soul. I still don’t, really. Yet now, every morning I read daily devotions from a small leather-bound book my friend and mentor gave me in 1997. These guides help me. I don’t think of them as religious, but enlightened. Sometimes Jesus is mentioned, and at first, that made me anxious because He was not part of my upbringing. My friend suggested that whenever I see His name, just replace it in my head with some other one, like Herman. So that’s what I do now.

Herman often advises in the pages of the book not to live in the past or the future. But when I read that sweet prayer above, that third line, fourth word in, well, it’s a challenge for me not to think about what’s ahead, because every day I’m more aware that whatever it is, it’s closer than it was before.

At twelve years old, I was preoccupied studying for my upcoming Bar Mitzvah; in high school, I was thinking about college; when I met my husband, my mind went to how would we decorate; earning my master’s degree at 47, I was fretting over what I would do once I graduated; and since landing my teaching job 20 years ago, that fourth word sometimes hovers in my field of vision.

It makes me think of Orson Welles’ movie Citizen Kane and the famous last few moments of the film when we find out what Kane’s final word, rosebud, actually meant. Why suddenly, at the moment of death, did a sled emerge, out of the morass of a lifetime, from his mind? Because it embodied for him, near his final breath, that long before his life became obsessed with money and power, it was his early childhood spent with his loving mother (and his sled), that was truly meaningful.

What will I think of when my time comes? What is that most important thing, moment, person, event of my life?

I thought, make a list, even though I’m not exactly shopping. What have I done that is important enough to merit an operatically orchestrated ending like Charles Foster Kane got when we see that sled thrown into the fire? My problem, though, is that I tend to undervalue my accomplishments because it seems prideful. Racking my brain to think of something that makes me feel humbly proud, the only thing I could come up with was that I’m able to crack and empty an egg from its shell with one hand.

Omg, is this what I am? An idiot?

Looking back on my life thus far, when was I happiest, what moments were the sweetest, that I could carry with me into eternity? I know falling in love with my husband was a time that I will never forget, that I am always thankful for. But that in and of itself is a disqualifier because it is so much the fabric of my life every single day. There’s gotta be something that I’ve forgotten, that I want to suddenly remember at the very end which will somehow justify my existence on this earth?

Maybe, like Kane, it could be an object, a possession that fills me with the warmth of family in a meaningful and weighty way. I do have a plaster statue of Moses (that is pretty heavy), based on the seven-foot-tall Michelangelo statue. It’s been in our family since the 1950s and it truly connects me with the honest feelings of beautifully sweet times. But it’s just not that big finale moment I’m looking for.

Struggling for the perfect resolution that can prove that my life has been somehow meaningful, a poem I wrote when I was twenty-three, from my uber maudlin series, popped into my head:

i love the trees,

i love the plants,

i love the bees,

i love the ants,

i love the mountains

i love the ocean,

i love the fountains

and god’s devotion.

i love women,

i love men,

joe palooka, bazooka

i love sen sen

i love you

you love me,

i love every

thing i see

but most of all

i love to lie,

i love to hate,

i love to cry

i love to be a

pessimist,

the head confessor

on each blacklist.

i love my fish

with cream of tarter

on a disease

ridden plate,

(i love to play martyr).

i like my tea

with sympathy

cause everything

looks dim for me

i’d like for once

to have the chance

to love the trees,

to love the plants

Back then, rather than feeling the fullness of life, the richness and wonder of our collective existence, the poem aptly described the angst-ridden, post-teenage cynicism I felt towards myself and the world. In the dramatic aria, which erupted from my tortured heart, where underneath my jovial exterior, I was tragically unhappy, randomly victimized, destined to be alone forever.

So, wouldn’t it be wonderful, then, as I lie dying, that I remember life has treated me immeasurably well, to my complete and utter surprise; not without difficulties (or drama), but, like everyone else, I had the chance to make it a good life. Whether it be the Lord or a guy named Herman up in the sky, whatever, with the help of something, I actually do love those trees and plants now. And whereas Charles Kane’s happiest moments were (and ended) so early in his life, mine seem to guide me as I get older.

And as so often happens in my search for answers, I am led back to where I began, and realize what I was looking for across the universe, was right here all the time, deep inside me. And whether I remember this at my denouement or not, it feels mighty good to know it right now.

Cliff Simon has baked, painted (and eaten) cakes since the ‘70s, while his love of theatre has brought him to a career designing sets and teaching students how to, too. He first discovered a love of words from hearing the lyrics of composer Stephen Sondheim, whose work he’s found to be so totally on target. Cliff is obsessed with whatever he does, and writing is definitely no different. http://www.cliffcakes.com