I didn’t know him or her.  Chances are, you didn’t either.

People are continuously fascinated by the lives and deaths of people they “loved” or felt they “knew”.  Celebrity illnesses and deaths make for big stories in this “We Are the World” world that we live in.  The 30^th anniversary of John Lennon’s senseless murder juxtaposed against the death of Elizabeth Edwards reminded me once again how hungry American culture is for celebrity gossip and how willing the media is to provide whatever crumbs are necessary to feed the morbid curiosity. 

I’ve been thinking about this for the past couple of days.

Now, reports of Aretha Franklin’s pancreatic cancer have me thinking even more. 

Flanked by increasingly tough economic times, ongoing wars, disease, violence, WikiLeaks, Obama’s uphill battle and of course, the holidays, America can’t seem to stay focused for very long.  Even all together, these things barely stand a chance of keeping our attention and can easily be trumped by some B list celebrity’s idiotic foray into the legal system.  The untimely demise of a major star or world leader will keep us distracted for days.  Throw in a royal wedding and the rest of the world could be pulled out from right under us and we wouldn’t even know it.

It’s happening as I write this.

Meanwhile, buried under the snow or on the back pages of some soon-to-be- out-of-print newspaper, there are stories of lives and deaths of people we will never hear of.   They struggle daily with terminal cancer, lack of health insurance, proper care, running water, advocates or resources.  They die of gunshot wounds, at the hands of governments we care (or know) little about or diseases (and in countries) we’ve never even heard of.  They suffer from malnutrition or human touch.  They don’t have “people” protecting them or their legacy or disseminating information in Ted Turner colorized images.

They leave spouses and offspring and siblings in mourning and mountains of bills that can never be paid with imaginary money that doesn’t exist.

No child left behind my ass.

In hospitals, hospices, barrios, slums and assisted living facilities all over the world, people who never sang a song that became popular and wives of philanderers who never ran for public office are looking at sure, slow death as its taunting, steady light creeps under the door.  The life stories of these people are known to many or some or none and in many cases, are no longer remembered by them at all.

For those few who will long be remembered, most will be easily forgotten.

And unless you killed someone, made your mark in life or met your maker in a very public way, your life and death will go unnoticed. So will mine. Few will care how you lived or died or utter your name, except perhaps in passing when you leave this messy thing called life behind for your family or the next generation to clean up. 

The human race is an oddity in itself.  Regardless of who we are, we eventually all cross the finish line. 

Alone.

If we could all only learn to live respectfully in peace instead of hoping to die or rest in it, what a wonderful world this could be.

Imagine all the people.