“Hi sis”

“Hey bro”

“Whats up?”

“Sent you an email”

“Oh?”

“You know Beckett?”

“Sure, Saint Thomas Becket. I read the Jean Anouilh play and loved it and the Burton O’Toole movie is very good and Becket’s willingness to suffer for his faith made quite an impression. Why?”

“Samuel Beckett”

“Oh, him“

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“The teacher assigned us ‘Waiting for Godot” high school senior English. That night I got about halfway through it and stopped. I told the teacher I couldn’t finish it because it was provoking anxiety. He was an older guy and said ‘Maybe in a few years’ and that was it.”

“Cool. I wish it could have been that easy for me.”

“You were assigned that?”

“No. I didn’t know about Beckett’s plays till later in life and to be honest the little I heard I didn’t think I’d be interested. I meant cool way of getting out of an assignment.”

“The play upset me. I haven’t gone back to it. I even said no to a couple free tickets for the Robin Williams, Steve Martin production. And you know how much I like them. So whats the email?”

“One of my math students came to me with words of Beckett and asked if we could talk about the logic behind them and after reading them I said yes; it will be an interesting project. She wasn’t sure what book they came from. Later that night I thought of you and finding some meaning to them that could be helpful.”

“I see. You send the email?”

“I did.”

“Okay. I will read them. How many?”

“Only one email”

“No, I mean how many words?”

Oh, 167. You want me to find what book they came from?”

“No, that’s okay, if I’m interested I shouldn’t have a problem. Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. I just wanted to get that to you quickly.”

“You know its been less then 24 hours since we last talked; not to say there is a problem with that. I love you and glad to talk to you anytime.”

“I’m sorry. Ever since you brought up the ideation I worry.”

“I told you worry if I bring up the plan. Okay”

“Okay. Give me a call tomorrow and tell me what you think of the 167 words.”

“I will, love ya.”

“Love ya too.”

John’s sister Pat worries about him. His wife Bette passed away close to eight months ago. John is sixty four years old and Pat has asked him about his future. She feels he is holding back. At one point he said “Hey sis I’m not sure how much I’m interested and let’s leave it at that” So now he has these 167 words and wonders how much import to give them. John found them to resonate and for obvious and not so obvious reasons. He does find it curious that Beckett has come back to kinda haunt him via sister Pat and her math student. He put the last few words into the computer with the name Beckett and the search came up with the novel called “The Unnamable”. Later he purchased it online.

“Hey bro, interesting don’t you think? Did you find the book “

“I did. I should have it in a couple days.”

“Glad to hear that. In light of what you told me you’re not worried about the bum giving you anxiety?”

“No as a matter a fact, the way I feel now, anxiety with a dash of hope is maybe what I need. If I’m okay with this book I”m considering reading others-hell maybe I will read his complete oeuvre. A little something for the future.”

“I like the logic of that.”

“How did that go?”

“We’re still working on it.”

The following week John got a delivery and in the boxes were the complete works of Samuel Beckett. As far as Pat knew John hadn’t finished the book but considered the gamble worth the expense. It paid off; he plans on continuing the reading. Pat is no fool and understands grief has its own agenda. She knows the reading could stop. She knows it might just be a detour but she is holding fast to her faith and doesn’t believe coincidence in regards to her math student named Bette with an ‘e’.

This is the email Pat sent John​

You must go on, that’s all I know.

They’re going to stop, I know that well:  I can feel it.  They’re going to abandon me. It will be the silence, for a moment (a good few moments). Or it will be mine? The lasting one, that didn’t last, that still lasts?  It will be I?

You must go on.            I can’t go on.            You must go on.

I’ll go on. You must say words, as long as there are any – until they find me, until they say me. (Strange pain, strange sin!) You must go on. Perhaps it’s done already. Perhaps they have said me already. Perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story. (That would surprise me, if it opens.)

It will be I? It will be the silence, where I am? I don’t know, I’ll never know: in the silence you don’t know.

You must go on.            I can’t go on.            I’ll go on.

Love To You All