It's Empty

I know that I write a lot about people who are dead. I can’t help it; I know a lot of dead people.
Butch has been gone nearly two and a half years. Today, I took the last pill in a big bottle of IBU Profen that was prescribed to him and it made me cry. If you haven’t been through this, I don’t think I can explain it, but that bottle has his name on it, in print – an official record that he was here. Now, that record is gone.
I wonder who will cherish his Purple Heart after I die?
My aunt practices eastern religious principles; she thinks I am more sentimental and cemented to the physical world than is good for me. When things like this go through my mind, I know that she’s right, at least in part. But, I am, by no means, a Buddhist. I think life is a gift, I cherish it and I will probably hold onto it when it’s my time to go. With that outlook, I would be an embarrassment to Mahayana.
Unless I suddenly grasp the importance of attaining Nirvana, I’ll continue to treasure my little keepsakes from the people I love, even ones as silly as anti-inflammatory meds. If you don’t understand this, consider yourself lucky.