The human condition and an existential crisis at bedtime 

What if there is no tomorrow?

The question came from my son, who has become quite the worrywart as of late, out of nowhere. It was going on late in the evening, long past bedtime. I could hear the owls and crickets through the window performing their nightly elegy in the vast darkness of the night. I was unprepared for the inquiry, and it hit unexpectedly like a sucker punch in the gut. 

I thought quickly, or tried to at least, me being neither preacher nor philosopher, hoping to come up with the most comforting and reassuring answer I could muster. One that would ease the mind of someone who should have long been asleep so I could do the same. 

Why do such questions come at night and when they are least expected? Come at me with an existential crisis mid-morning after my first cup of coffee, when my brain is fresh, and the weight of responsibility and worry hasn’t broken my spirit for the day. I am a morning person. I can conquer the world before lunch, but I’m not worth a darn after 2 p.m. 

I said that during a job interview once. It got a few chuckles from the room. I got the job, too. Honesty is always the best policy, they always say. Which is what I thought as I sat down on the bed and prepared to face this crisis head-on. I fell back on the biblical assurances peppered across the pages of the Good Book as to what happens when life on this corporeal plane ceases. 

That provided some relief, it was certainly better than the alternative, “Well, if that’s the case, it’s been nice knowing ya.” But it was still not much consolation to someone hoping to get a little more Nintendo time before the universe ceases to exist. That’s precisely why we’re not supposed to know the number of days allotted. We’d certainly find too many ways to waste them. 

I remained sitting on the bed for a few minutes, looking around the dark room, listening to the crescendo of the nocturnal serenade coming from the woods around the house, thinking I’d really should start reading up on a few things. Before long the form lying next to me relaxed, the breathing calmed and grew soft and steady as sleep finally took hold. 

I sat for a little bit longer, just in case there was no tomorrow, before standing back up and easing my way to the door. Along the way, I stepped on a Lego and stifled my outburst of pain long enough to make it to the living room. I checked the clock in the kitchen before heading to my own bed. The face showed after midnight, tomorrow had come. That would come as a big relief after the sun rose again. 

Maybe I should let him sneak in a few extra minutes of Nintendo, just as a precaution. After he cleans his room, of course.         

 You can reach Kyle Dominy at k.l.dominy@gmail.com or write to 115 South Jefferson Street Dublin, Ga. 31021