Driving to the dentist office, my mom and I were busy exchanging stories about our day. Cars passed us and music could be heard from the back seat where my little brother was playing a game on my mom’s iPhone.
I glanced out the window across the median at the cars going in the opposite direction when something caught my eye.
A police escort led an entourage of cars, headlights of each car shining even though it was the middle of the day.
It was a funeral processional.
“Look at that mom,” I said, gesturing to the long train of cars.
She turned her head and watched the cars pass and then turned her focus back on the road with a distant look in her eye.
“You know something that bothers me?” she said.
“What?”
“That was someone’s baby at one time, and people like you and me drive by and live our lives like it’s a normal day.”
I looked at her, then at the headlights still following the motorcycle while she continued.
“They had dreams and hopes. They had goals. Whoever that was, they were loved by someone, and we act as if they were a nobody.”
Immediately my thoughts went to the “nobody” in that hearse.
What was he like?
What was his name?
Did he have a family of his own?
How old was he?
How much will he be missed?
As the headlights continued to pass, my mom talked of the tragedy and how it angered her that when someone famous died, everyone noticed and it’s all that anyone can talk about, but when a “nobody” died, it’s just another day.
I prayed a silent prayer for the family and friends of the “nobody” and then for all the people passing in their cars, that they would be enlightened just like I had been.
To the nobody in the casket in that hearse that lead that funeral procession that Wednesday afternoon, thank you for making this “nobody” realize the importance of each life. Even after you lost your life, you still managed to change mine. In the moment that you passed my car, you were able to become a somebody to this nobody.
Rest in peace somebody. The lesson you taught me will not be forgotten.
