[ WP ] Nothing is forever

The first time I heard the word *forever* I was crawling on the floor, watching the morning TV. It was something about a fox and a hound. The fox was saying to the hound: 
 
 `` We'll be best friends forever, wo n't we?'' 
 
 `` Yeah,'' the hound said. 
 
 `` Mama,'' I asked, `` what's forever?'' 
 
 `` It's a really, really, long time,'' she said. The cartoon played on. `` Like-'' 
 
 I screwed up my face. `` Like... uh... a hundred years?'' I said. 
 
 She smiled. `` Yes, dear. Only longer.'' 
 
 I did n't know what could be bigger than a hundred. So I just left it behind, and watched the movie. So it went. 
 
 -- - 
 
 If I could look back and say which things defined my life in segments, I could've chosen any number of things. For example, I could divide my life into *pre-losing Dad* and *post-losing Dad*. Pre-loss had a wonderful series of nervous chess tournaments and quiet nights where he'd ruffle my hair before I slept. Post-loss had chess and sleep. This was one way of doing it, and when I was younger I did it this way. But I eventually decided on cartoons. My school routine would consist of them, one way or another. Every day after coming back from elementary school - turn the TV on and watch what was up. 
 
 And eventually what I did after school came to be dominated by them, too. 
 
 When I was fifteen I was obsessed by this cartoon about a triangle-headed boy of some sort. Him and his brother would do the craziest things - build rollercoasters in their backyard, surf tidal waves... and I decided I would write about them. Fanfiction, in effect. Now, of course, I did n't think my first attempts were that good - but that was never the point. There was more to cartoons than dumb twenty-two minute snippets of blasting off to outer space. Like my writing, the point was to entertain. To have fun. And if that were accomplished - if writing brought me joy - then it could go on indefinitely. I could be a writer, I thought. That's it. I can make other people happy with my work. And I would be contented forever. 
 
 But nothing really lasts forever. You grow up. You forget a little about how to dream. Suddenly you realise that writing is a *hard* gig. You looked around at all the good writers and you wondered: what the hell am I doing here? So of course, you try to make yourself better. Maybe you learn how to write well. You forget why you write. Maybe it could n't be helped. After all, we left school and went out to work. We left behind our childish thoughts and learned to speak like a man, and any reasonable person would see that as a necessity, would n't they? Maybe playtime was reserved in perpetuity to the others, and maybe that fact was good. Nothing is forever, after all. So it went. So it always has gone. 
 
 -- - 
 
 All these things and more came back to wave me goodbye as I looked at my grandson. 
 
 He was watching the cartoons again. I do n't think he knew; even if he did, it was probably too late. He could n't save me. He could not change the world - not just yet. But he could very well pretend, and that was good enough for him. 
 
 Slowly, I moved up to him. Nothing changed as he stared. The cartoon played on. And then he asked something I'd never forget: 
 
 `` Grandpa, what's forever?'' 
 
 `` I do n't know,'' I said. 
 
 `` My friend said we'd be friends forever,'' he said. `` Grandpa - how long is forever?'' 
 
 `` A very long time,'' I replied. 
 
 `` Like... uh... a thousand years, or something?'' 
 
 `` Something like that.'' 
 
 `` How long is it?'' 
 
 The cartoon animal played a cartoon game. My grandkid was n't looking. I saw behind him, his teary parents - my daughter, my son-in-law, their eyes reflected in mine. This was *their* boy, after all. Nothing could make them more proud... and more sad. 
 
 I smiled. `` Long enough,'' I said, and his face lit up like no other face ever could. 
 
 `` Do you think so, grandpa?'' he said. 
 
 `` Yes,'' I replied. 
 
 And that was good enough for him. 
 
 Maybe that would last. I do n't know - life does n't stop becoming one long line of maybes as you grow older. But though much remained to be seen; much *was* seen. And though I was not young anymore, maybe he could be. In this way forever could last. So it went. So it always has gone. One unending chain of life, stories and cartoons and ideas handed down from generation to generation. Maybe *I* was n't forever - but that part of me that still hoped to be a great writer could last forever. And as long as kids could dream, or boats could fly, that part of me was never lost and could never die.
