‘Hey, Siri! How many days till June 5?’
‘19’ replied Siri.
And she made this one of her snap stories, for she was going back, back home. The days didn’t end, her life did.
The shooting in Santa Fe took Sabika’s life, her wishes, her future, wrapped them in a coffin, and sent it all back to her family, back to Karachi. She was not the only victim, though. Innocent kids lost their lives, and this wasn't the only incident of its kind.
I’m not going to write about gun laws and all the similar incidents that are now becoming more frequent. Many people have written, and spoken, about it, and if something was to be done, it should’ve been by now. So let’s forget about all such laws.
I was, instead, wondering about the significance of someone’s last words. It is strange that we say a thousand things every single day and no one remembers them the next morning, unless something happens, unless we’re no longer there to repeat our words. Then they cling to our last words, trying to find us, a part of us, somewhere in that everyday chatter. Remembering the dead, trying to keep them alive.
But do the dead want to be remembered? Is this the reason some people keep journals, only to be opened up and read when they’re no longer alive, so they can be kept safe in a drawer? The dead journal getting forgotten after some time when the cabinet is full of life. It is still there though, suffocating but hanging on, for it will be opened one day, someday.
While running a random search on ‘famous last words,’ I came across an interesting compilation. The ones which stood out the most, for me, were those of Karl Marx: ‘Last words are for fools who haven’t said enough.’ But then again, these were his ‘last words’ and these were remembered, even if he didn’t want them to be.
Talking about last words, if I’m no longer alive when you read this, maybe you’ll remember these words. And then you’ll talk about the person who talked about last words... or maybe not.