“Cherished grandfather of 14 grandchildren and 10 great grandchildren,” says the old man’s obituary. You read the obituaries every day: not every single one, not all the way through, but this one has caught your eye.
You scroll through the comments. “My condolences,” say the mourners. “He will be missed.” Standard stuff, nothing new here, something you might have written yourself, if only you’d known the fellow.
But at the bottom: “He was not Cherished by his grand children, nor his great grand children. Not from me or mine anyway.” What?
The comment is signed by someone with the old man’s last name. A grandchild, you guess. Someone not named directly in the obituary. The old man’s life has been measured and tallied and this guy wants a recount.
‘Too soon,’ you think. ‘Way too soon.’ It shocks you, the way, when faced with an obituary, this person told the truth. His truth, anyway. Who does that?
Surely it’s better to wait fifteen years, while the body cools and the emotions congeal, before making any concrete statements, before coming down one way or another on which way a man should be measured.
Surely it’s better to wait, wait just a little longer, before telling them how you really feel.