Is Anyone Afraid Of Dying?

I just Googled, "What are human beings most afraid of?" I was expecting death to be at the top of the list, but it isn't. It isn't even on the list. 

What the heck is wrong with people today? Is the world so fucked up that even death isn't the scariest thing out there? Have people become so desensitized that eternal darkness has been reduced to an afterthought?  

Has anyone seen the Grim Reaper lately? Maybe he's too busy making TikToks or sitting in an abandoned storefront underneath a sign that says, "Closed for business."

Someone should check on him. 

If you wonder what scares people more than death, here's the unofficial list.

Thunder and lightning come in at number ten. Already, I have a problem, and we're only at number ten. I know zero humans over 12 who are afraid of thunder and lightning. I do know several afraid dogs, and you can squash that fear with a Thunder Shirt for $39.95. The rest of the list could not be less impressive. Dogs, mice, enclosed spaces, spiders, insects, flying, snakes, going to the dentist, heights, and rounding out the list as the number one thing humans are most afraid of is... 

Public speaking.

Not even falling to your death from a 15-foot-high podium while public speaking. Just public speaking. 

Do you remember that sick scene from Final Destination when the guy goes to the dentist and accidentally gets impaled by the Tarter Scraper? 

Exactly.

I'm not really scared of death. It just makes me sad to think about it. The actual last breath part seems almost peaceful. I have had a few opportunities to be with people who knew they were dying, and not one of those people ever seemed to express fear. They appeared more enlightened and content. They seemed more concerned about the people they were leaving behind. 

The leaving people behind is the scary part for me. It makes me sad to think about it. What happens when I'm gone? Will my kids be okay? Will my friends be sad? Will my co-workers show up to my funeral? How long will my wife wait before she starts dating that guy at the yoga studio?

Maybe it's not the leaving behind part. It could be knowing that the ones you loved the most will eventually move on. Does the grief become more manageable over time? Will they forget about me? Do memories start to slowly fade and disappear, like day-old puddles in a parking lot?

My friend Brian passed away not long ago. I think of him often. There were so many people he knew who loved him. So many moments and memories were captured and preserved for all time—tucked away in every corner of the cloud. 

Then, there is legacy, which is way more powerful than a memory. Memories like the change of seasons or falling in love will sneak up on you. But legacy is different. Legacy doesn't come and go. It isn't fleeting. Legacy is everlasting. It's transcendent. It's the brick-and-mortar. It's the behind-the-scenes. It's the warehouse where the memories are manufactured, packaged, and shipped. Legacy can't be tied down, and it knows no borders. Legacy travels. It's on the road, like Kerouac. Legacy is everywhere. It's in us and around us. It's above us and below us. It's the energy that flows through us.

Recently, I went to a Counting Crows concert. They were never my favorite band, but like so many other bands, when I got sober, their music moved me. Adam Duritz is a master lyricist. He uses words to paint pictures like an artist exploits color. I always feel affected when I hear them. I have never experienced them live, so I was looking forward to seeing them.

I instantly felt sentimental when the show started, but I wasn't sure why. Then it snuck up on me—those memories, sly and stealthy. 

It was Brian. 

Brian introduced me to Counting Crows, which seems like a hundred years ago. He loved Counting Crows. I hadn't thought about it in years because it wasn't an event or even a moment that seemed significant at the time, but it stuck with me. All these years later, and so soon after Brian left this world, he was in my thoughts, at the concert, listening to the music with me. I thought about him the whole show. I saw his face during every song. I felt his legacy in every note, making me smile.

Brian is gone, but he still exists in this world. He always will. Every person lucky enough to have experienced him has a memory that will sneak up on them like it did for me. That's what legacy is. It's everywhere. He's everywhere. He is in me and around me. He's above me and below me. He's the energy that flows through me.

Maybe death shouldn't be on that list after all.