Obscure, but irreplaceable
Mark Pavilons

Most of us live our lives in relative obscurity. Few of us achieve that proverbial 15 minutes of fame when the spotlight is shining directly on us.

Most of us, we settle. We settle for mediocrity. We have fairly "normal" 9-to-5 jobs, average homes and families that range somewhere between those depicted on The Little House on the Prairie and The Simpsons.

While we exist in our little worlds, it's not to say we don't have a major impact on our circle of family and friends. When it all comes down to it, the only important fame we could ever hope for is to be a super star in our children's eyes. They are the ultimate fans, and the harsh judges, of our actions and lifestyles. They are much more valuable than a platinum-selling album. And our spouses, who openly or silently support us unconditionally, deserve a front-row ticket to the show. Contrary to belief, no one is replaceable.

There are people I miss; people who will never see me letting loose and singing into a fake microphone with the kids in the rec. room. There are those who will never witness another birthday, anniversary or miracle here on Earth.

If I could only hold them one more time, I'd make it count. I would feel like I've won again. But the prize is not tangible - it's like a gentle breath blown on dying embers. I've said goodbye to three family members over the past decade - my dad, sister and uncle. That's three too many. There's still so much yet to be done, and we'll have to toil on without them by our side or in the bleachers. Three fewer to cheer us on. A trio of voices, silent for some time now. It's like taking away a primary color from a famous painting - you just can't look at it the same way ever again. It's like removing a favorite flower from the award-winning garden.

But there's a natural source of power - cheap and never-ending energy. It comes in the form of a child. When I look into the eyes of my kids (as I'm prone to do more so these days), I feel like a superhero, but at the same time, I feel weak and oh, so humble.

My first-born princess Lexie presented Kim and I with a home-made card recently. In it she wrote: "This card comes from my heart. Remember, you made me alive. We always watch over each other."

She also mentioned since we created her she owes us a great deal.

You know what they say about the plain, honest truth from the mouths of little ones. While I have some inyour face evidence that I've helped create three human beings, I never really thought of the whole giving life thing. Creation, even after three successful attempts, still amazes me. I am profoundly confident there's much more at work than mere genetic material coming together in biological soup. No matter how you describe it and rationalize it in medical terms, creation is magical, mysterious and heavenly. It's a gift that should humble each and every one of us mortals.

As I mentioned, average people could spend their entire lives without making a dent in the social fabric. Sure, each and every one of us is responsible for several ripples in that huge pond of humanity. And, if we have close friends and family members, there's no doubt we've touched many lives in some unique and special way.

But it all ends pretty much the same way.

There's always a small box, a shoebox perhaps, at the bottom of the closet or in some corner of the garage or attic. This box is what remains of us when we're gone.

Its contents vary, but often include old letters, photos, postcards, a few favourite objects like a keychain, coin or trinket. Sometimes it contains old toys, keepsakes and a few Valentine's Day cards made by the kids when they were preschoolers. There could be an old watch, or piece of costume jewellery - none of which is valuable to anyone else - but almost priceless to the former owner.

They're memories, in one small, convenient container - our lives in a nutshell. Not grand, glamorous or cosmopolitan. Just a few pieces of what was.

Of all the dreaded tasks I've had to do over the years, wrapping up the lives of loved ones were the worst experiences. It was very sad, really, in an almost regrettable way. After three-quarters of a century on this planet (in my sister's case it was less than 50 years), three ripples in the pond were reduced to a handful of knick-knacks, souvenirs and personal bits of paper. There were some strange and gawdy picture frames or odd-shaped bottle openers picked up on some Caribbean holiday decades ago.

But with each piece that I carefully wrapped or disposed of - careful not to break anything - I felt it. It was a very strange feeling, like someone standing behind you at the bus stop. I found myself smiling, instead of weeping. These crazy little items spoke, reaching out from beyond. I'm sure there was a story behind each and every article, something that made them smile, laugh or even cry.

There were things I still can't part with, like my Dad's fake Rolex I got from a guy on a street corner in New York City. There's my uncle's felt cowboy hat, adorned with feathers and pins. When he wore it his chest widened with pride. And there's a framed print my sister bought for Kim and I for our first home.

I thought about my person shoebox and what I'd like it to contain. I'd fill this small container with some souvenirs from trips Kim and I took in our younger years - keychains, lighters and cheesy dice from Vegas. I'd toss in the two tiny pieces of the Berlin Wall someone gave me many years ago. I'd carefully place one or two photos of me smiling from ear to ear, like the one on a bench in Cartagena or eating conch fritters in Nassau. There would be some toy tanks and airplanes and one of my watches. Perhaps I'd include my fake $1 million bill or imitation diamond.

Not very fascinating or impressive to anyone, really. Not much of anything at all.

But everything is me. From my playfulness and concern for the past, to my search for a better life, it's all in there, if you know where to look.

Obscure, maybe. Replaceable? Definitely not!