The British colonel rested his arms on the railing of his enemy’s recently constructed bridge. He peered into the early morning mist. It was a moment of reflection. He spoke quietly, haltingly. “But there are times . . . when suddenly you realize you’re nearer the end than the beginning. You wonder . . . you ask yourself . . . what the sum total of your life represents . . . what difference your being there at any time made to anything . . . or if it made any difference at all, really . . . particularly in comparison with other men’s careers. I don’t know whether that kind of thinking is very healthy . . . but I must admit I’ve had some thoughts along those lines . . . from time to time.” Big movies tend to send big messages. Healthy thinker or not, Colonel Nicholson had every reason to ponder his life. In wartime, at a jungle POW camp, death was his ready companion, only a heartbeat away, ever present. Eventually, in war or peace, everyone reaches the season of death. You don’t make speeches about it. You don’t stand on a bridge and mutter platitudes. But you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t occasionally consider the conduct of your life — to ask if your existence has meant anything beyond your own survival — if by intent or by chance you moved the needle a fraction or raised the bar an inch. To be sure, your resume won’t break new ground. Maybe dig up some anticipated things somebody can list in an obit or say during final ceremonies. Creditable stuff, to be fair.  Exaggerated stuff, perhaps. Typical involvements, yes. Military. Civic clubs. Chambers of Commerce. Churches. Social Clubs. Political activism. Charities, awards. plaques and pats on the back. No transformative exploit to mention. No invention. No feat of heroism. Anyway, if you insist on living too long, no one’s around to know or remember the journey, especially your dislocated years — the apprehensive, anxious boyhood, the thirst for attention, the need for acceptance, the scratching and clawing to dig out of economic deprivation. And no one knows, or wants to know, about the stuff in the closet. God forbid. Unfortunately, God already knows. Well, Colonel, you were right. This kind of thinking isn’t healthy. Even more, it’s a shabby brand of narcissism and vanity — of morbid self pity in the face of loss, staring at mortality. You’re better served to get off that bridge. Forget the epilogue and remember things worth remembering. When you wrote the petition in 10th grade biology class that all but two students signed, refusing to take an unjust test from a  luscious female teacher fresh out of college. The scandal rocked the school and you prepared for maximum security at the state penitentiary. When you stood at the urinal under Duke indoor stadium and bummed your first cigarette off a New Jersey freshman whose swarthy kisser easily passed for a 40-year-old good fella. On a moonlit night, in Duke gardens, lusting for coed Pat Petit whose name you thought couldn’t be coincidental. When you stood on the mound, staring down at 6’7″ clean-up hitter and All American Frank Howard of the Ohio State National Champions, waving a club that looked 10 feet long. Then, on that still, summer afternoon, when you saw the brunette doll in her backyard, wearing cuffed blue jeans, white sweat shirt, white socks and saddle oxfords; and heard the tinkling laugh. Her name was Nancy. In that instant, real life began. So you see, Colonel, self evaluation is a pointless exercise. You’re better served  to ask , “What difference her being there at any time made to anything.” That’s easy. All the difference in the world. Ask anyone.