This morning, when I woke up, I had a post in mind. Usually, ideas and most thoughts I have come at night, so this was surprising. I am the kind of person, having short attention span and all, that needs to write it down while it’s still fresh or else I’m on to the next thing and the one thing that was up there with the light bulb over it blows out. Short circuited within a sea of other light bulbs coming down stream. That post, all nice and fresh with newness, sat patiently idle, waiting for my fingers to get busy with typing. Then the strangest thing happened.

Tim Russert died.

I am a fan of Russert’s. Not to the point where I can tell you one outstanding piece of work he’d done that I found moving or compelling. I just liked his overall nature. He wasn’t a shouter. He was firm. He had opinions. He could stick it to politicians with his no-nonsense questions, and he never played favorites if he needed to show toughness. And after all his questions and posing, you, the eloquent interviewee, were sitting in a puddle of stutters and hypocritical fragments without knowing how you got there. It was then this man would turn to the camera, his stern features softened long enough to say, “…and we’ll be right back after this commercial message.”

In these past few years, my friends and I - and probably the world over - have noticed the rise in deaths. While celebrity deaths tend to get the most notice, understandably, it’s the bylines in the Metro and Obituary sections of newspapers suddenly growing a bit denser than you remember. And you’re looking around your life. Your family. Your belongings. Your small space you’ve made for yourself. And you wonder… what’s it all for? Better yet? Am I where I want to be?

If you ask the latter question, you feel the need for life in TiVo - a mad dash past the commercials and insignificant fears and hang-ups just to hurry up and get to that magic place where, if you died today, you know it wasn’t all in vain. That you’re leaving something behind your loved ones can be proud of and say, “I knew them. And they were great.” The rest of the world doesn’t have to share that sentiment. But at least you’ll know.

At times, I find myself reading an obituary or two. Before you say, Ew! That’s so morbid!, you have to understand I come from a long line of family who make it a habit to read this same section if only to make sure their names don’t appear somewhere. But, yes. It is morbid. I read them for different reasons than my family. I want to know how someone was remembered. What impact they made on others. Of course, you’re dead. You can’t write your own obituary… unless it’s part of your last dying wish or something, then that’s just sad. Typically, an obituary is written by a family member or close friend. And I have yet to see one that says, “Let me tell you about that S.O.B. I don’t know when that fool died since his neighbor was the one who found him, but he owed me $50. I hope he didn’t owe you money, too. Services at Hope Memorial. Bring your own fried chicken. The family thanks you.” Obituaries are tributes, fitting or not. They speak proudly of the life a person lived. If you collected trash all your life, guaranteed your obituary will say you spent your life making sure the city was free from all pain, suffering, and undesirables; that you made it your mission to keep the streets clean from the filth of inhumanity.

Of course, there’s always that one person who really knew you, reading the same obituary, saying, That fool collected TRAYSH! Up and down my street, er’ week, is what he did. Why they lie on him?