Paperwork: I am still embracing words that came from a 17-year-old

I was 17 years old. Writing my epitaph.

And now ... a few decades later ... I’m reading what I wrote and I stand by it. No changes.

What I wrote was a poem. I was in that glorious period of life when high school was about to end and before me was a lifetime.

And I was thinking about lifetimes and how they end. At least it looks that way, but there’s more to it. My thoughts were not morbid. They were more philosophical. More universal. What I wrote applied to everyone. Or so I thought then. And I still do.

The poem was titled “Epitaph” and was written in May 1966. I pulled it out to reread, to see the original 17-year-old handwriting. As I read it, I found myself thinking about who I was then and who I am now.

At age 17 I was looking at the world and figuring out who I was, where I fit, and I was writing down thoughts ... my beliefs. Today I read those words and nod to myself, “Yeah, that is me. Still me.”

The writer in me struggles a bit with the poem. Every time I read it I want to tweak a word here or add a comma there.

But as tempting as it is, I refuse to change anything about what I wrote. To do so would change the history of the words, my history. It would be wrong.

I’m going on and on about this poem but I am not boasting. It does not reflect poetic genius. It won’t appear in some poetry anthology someday. (You’ll see because I will share it. I’m a bit nervous, though, as I’ve built this up to be some kind of major unveiling. Not my intention. Really.)

But … I am proud of what I wrote. The sentiment is not original. And the rhyming scheme is simplistic. But what is significant to me is that I wrote the poem at age 17 ... with so many years ahead.

I still feel the personal importance of what I wrote. I felt it in 1966. I feel it today.

Yes, yes, the poem. I must put it out there. So ... here is what I wrote at age 17:

Epitaph

Man is born to live, to die,

And with all his might he has to try

To dig his hands into the earth

And scratch out his name

And then to the people cry:

“I was here;

Now, let me die.”

Yes, these are thoughts I still embrace. Since age 17 I have felt the need to make a mark in the world and leave behind some kind of legacy.

But, hey, don’t start etching those words on my tombstone yet.

I’m still busy scratching out my name.

• Lonny Cain, retired managing editor of The Times in Ottawa, also was a reporter for The Herald-News in Joliet in the 1970s. His PaperWork email is lonnyjcain@gmail.com. Or mail The Times, 110 W. Jefferson St., Ottawa, IL 61350.