Death Like Hungry Fish in a Garden Pond

I have often fantasized how my life would come to a momentous end. Perhaps, I would be diagnosed with terminal cancer and my days on this earth would be limited with the expiration date of my untimely demise. Of course I would undergo treatment in my vain attempt for a little more time. My hair would fall out, and I’d shave my head, signaling to the world of the battle I am fighting. Pity would descend upon me, but I’d keep a brave face while I prepare to meet my maker. I’d fly through the stages of grief with agility and pose, taking a swan dive into the great unknown. Onlookers would lay their eyes on me with hope and inspiration as I lived my last days with my bald head held high.

The purpose of my life would finally present itself with those blaring trumpets of gloriousness. It would be then—right then and there on my death bed while I took my last breath—the meaning of my life would dawn on me while the sun set: the reason why I mattered.

And so, my soul would depart. The afterwards of my death is all I really cared about. I have lived a life I didn’t ask for. At least grant me the amusement of commemorating my exit how I see fit. 

Prepare my body. Inject the embalming fluid into my corpse to preserve what little longevity I had left. Let my life stand as a testament to the battle I’d fought. I don’t want any of that emotional, weepy shit either. Fucking celebrate it.

Don’t roll my casket into a funeral home. I’m going to be buried in a box, so let people view me outside in the sunshine. Let whatever residing force take please in the warmth before the cold ground swallows me whole.

Don’t play some tacky, tear-jerking music either. I swear, I will come back and haunt whoever’s ass I have to. I want my favorite song by my favorite band blaring as loud as speakers will allow. Sing along if you know the words because somewhere—wherever I am—I know I will be.

Don’t read some sappy eulogy either. Read passages from my favorite books. Read little notes I might have written. Read my damn grocery list if you have to. Make it mean something.

Don’t you dare wear black either. You had better not. Wear that tacky sweater you wore to the Christmas party where we met. Wear those jeans that I said made your ass look great. Wear that shirt I bought you for your birthday. Just wear something that I know is you. Just be yourself without the pretenses of the occasion. Just be the you that I knew.

For my final request, could you show me why I mattered? Could you whisper our inside jokes to me as I am being lowered into the ground? Could you comfort me? Could you prove you aren’t going to let my existence fade away? Could you sweep the debris from my grave when you visit? Could you forget about all the fake flower arrangements and leave something real? Could you keep my whirlwind of a life relevant? Could you keep me in your life?

Would you?

Morbid though it may be, but at least I would have some impact. It wasn’t that I wanted to die young under heart-wrenching circumstances, no. I just wanted to know I mattered. I just wanted to know that my life had purpose. That’s all I really wanted—to mean something to someone.

We live; we die. The afterwards of my death is all I really care about. I have lived a life I didn’t ask for. At least grant me the amusement of commemorating my exit how I see fit. 

Prepare my body. Inject the embalming fluid into my corpse to preserve what little longevity I had left. Let my life stand as a testament to the all the battles I have fought. 

I don’t want any of that emotional, weepy shit either. Fucking celebrate it. 


Don’t roll my casket into a funeral home. I’m going to be buried in a box, so let people view me outside in the sunshine. Let whatever residing force take please in the warmth before the cold ground swallows me whole. 

Don’t play some tacky, tear-jerking music either. I swear, I will come back and haunt whoever’s ass I have to. I want my favorite song by my favorite band blaring as loud as speakers will allow. Sing along if you know the words because somewhere—wherever I am—I know I will be. 

Don’t read some sappy eulogy either. Read passages from my favorite books. Read little notes I might have written. Read my damn grocery list if you have to. Make it mean something. 

Don’t you dare wear black either. You had better not. Wear that tacky sweater you wore to the Christmas party where we met. Wear those jeans that I said made your ass look great. Wear that shirt I bought you for your birthday. Just wear something that I know is you. Just be yourself without the pretenses of the occasion. Just be the you that I knew.

For my final request, could you show me why I mattered? 

Could you whisper our inside jokes to me as I am being lowered into the ground? Could you comfort me? Could you prove you aren’t going to let my existence fade away? Could you sweep the debris from my grave when you visit? Could you forget about all the fake flower arrangements and leave something real? Could you keep my whirlwind of a life relevant? Could you keep me in your life?

Would you?

Morbid though it may be, but at least I would have some impact. It isn’t that I want to die. I just want to know I matter. I just want to know that my life has purpose. That’s all I really want—to mean something to someone.

I just realized that in two weeks’ time I will be 25 years old.

Where did the last year go? And the year before that? In the greater scheme of things, it really does feel like I’m only going to be here for just a moment. That’s it. One small moment. It will come, and it will go. And there are so many things that I haven’t done yet, that I want to accomplish, that I want to experience. I want to make an impact. I want to work hard to make my dreams come true. I want my name to mean something. I want to fall in love. I want to grow old. I want to have children, a family, a home, a life. I want to leave my mark. I want. I want. I want…. All I really want is to make my moment count, you know? After so many years thinking I was undeserving, I just want to live—actually live—my moment to its fullest. I want my moment to be infinite.

I have often fantasized how my life would come to a momentous end. Perhaps I would be diagnosed with terminal cancer or an inoperable brain tumor. My days on this earth would be limited with the expiration date of my untimely demise. I would undergo treatment in a vain attempt for a little more time. My hair would fall out, signaling to the world of the battle I’m fighting. Pity would descend upon me as I tried to keep a brave face. I would fly though the stages of grief with agility and poise, taking a swan dive into the great unknown. Onlookers would lay their eyes on me with hope and inspiration as I lived my last days with my head held high. The purpose of my life would present itself with blaring trumpets of gloriousness. It would be then—right then and there on my death bed while I took my last breath—the meaning of my life would dawn on me while the sun set: the reason why I mattered.

And so, my soul would depart. Prepare my body. Inject the embalming fluid into my corpse to preserve what little longevity I had left. Let my life stand as a memorial to all those enduring my ill-fated diagnosis. That’s all I really cared about—the afterwards of my death.

I don’t want any of that weepy, emotional shit either. Fucking celebrate it.

Don’t roll my casket into a funeral home. I’m going to be buried in box, so let people view me outside in the sunshine. Let whatever residing force take pleasure in the warmth before the cold ground swallows me whole.

Don’t play some tacky, tear-jerking music. I’ll come back and haunt whoever’s ass I have to. I want my favorite song by my favorite band blaring as loud as the speakers will allow. Sing along with the music if you know the words. I will be.

Don’t read some sappy eulogy. Read passages from my favorite books. Read little notes I might’ve written to you. Read my damn grocery list if you have to.

Don’t you dare wear black either. You better not. Wear that tacky sweater I made fun of. Wear those jeans I said made your ass look great. Wear those shoes I envied. Wear that shirt I bought you for your birthday. Just wear something that I know is you. Just be yourself without the pretenses of the occasion. Just be the friend I knew.

Do show me that I mattered.

Please.

As I’m being lowered into the ground, whisper little inside jokes that we shared. Comfort me. Prove you aren’t going to let my existence fade away.

When you visit my grave, sweep the debris from my gravestone. Forget about all the fake ass flower arrangements. Leave a real one, a rose if you will, along with a bottle of Cognac. Pour me a shot. Toast to my existence and toss me a few coins for my thoughts. Keep my whirlwind of a life relevant; keep me in your life.

Morbid though it may be, but at least I would have some impact. It wasn’t that I wanted to die young under heart wrenching circumstances, no. I just wanted to know that I mattered. I just wanted to know that my life had purpose. That’s all I really wanted—to mean something… to someone.

 Matthew Hubbard

Some new material that I’m working on:

I have often fantasized how my life would come to a momentous end. Perhaps I would be diagnosed with terminal cancer.  My days on this earth would be limited with the expiration date of my untimely demise. I would undergo treatment in a vain attempt for a little more time. My hair would fall out, signaling to the world of the battle I’m fighting. Pity would descend upon me as I tried to keep a brave face. I would fly though the stages of grief with agility and poise, taking a swan dive into the great unknown. Onlookers would lay their eyes on me with hope and inspiration as I lived my last days with my head held high. The purpose of my life would present itself with blaring trumpets of gloriousness. It would be then—right then and there on my death bed while I took my last breath—the meaning of my life would dawn on me while the sun set: the reason why I mattered.

And so, my soul would depart. Prepare my body. Inject the embalming fluid into my corpse to preserve what little longevity I had left. Let my life stand as a memorial to all those enduring my ill-fated diagnosis. That’s all I really cared about—the afterwards of my death. 

I don’t want any of that weepy, emotional shit either. Fucking celebrate it.     

Don’t roll my casket into a funeral home. I’m going to be buried in box, so let people view me outside in the sunshine. Let whatever residing force take pleasure in the warmth before the cold ground swallows me whole.          

Don’t play some tacky, tear-jerking music. I’ll come back and haunt whoever’s ass I have to. I want my favorite song by my favorite band blaring as loud as the speakers will allow. Sing along with the music if you know the words. I will be.

Don’t read some sappy eulogy. Read passages from my favorite books. Read little notes I might’ve written to you. Read my damn grocery list if you have to.

Don’t you dare wear black either. You better not. Wear that tacky sweater I made fun of. Wear those jeans I said made your ass look great. Wear those shoes I envied. Wear that shirt I bought you for your birthday. Just wear something that I know is you. Just be yourself without the pretenses of the occasion. Just be the friend I knew. 

Do show me that I mattered.

Please.

As I’m being lowered into the ground, whisper little inside jokes that we shared. Comfort me. Prove you aren’t going to let my existence fade away.

When you visit my grave, sweep the debris from my gravestone. Forget about all the fake ass flower arrangements. Leave a real one, a rose if you will, along with a bottle of Cognac. Pour me a shot. Toast to my existence and toss me a few coins for my thoughts. Keep my whirlwind of a life relevant; keep me in your life.

Morbid though it may be, but at least I would have some impact. It wasn’t that I wanted to die young under heart wrenching circumstances, no. I just wanted to know that I mattered. I just wanted to know that my life had purpose. That’s all I really wanted—to mean something.

To someone. 

Death of Thought.

All appears to be right in the world when everything makes sense. The sun even shines brighter as it casts its light onto your life, reflecting a kaleidoscope of colors. But what happens when things don’t make sense? How does the sunshine fare as it bores down on the new perspective that you did NOT ask for? What then?

It’s like death. It’s like missing a funeral. No one tells you that a turn for the worse had been taken. Hell, no one offers condolences—not one “I’m sorry” or even “my deepest sympathy.” Nada. Nothing. Zilch. You are on your own to go at it alone as you stand in front of the grave with a sadden heart. Why had death swooped in on swift wings before life had the chance to live? Without your knowledge? Without your permission? No matter how big or how small or how significant, a loss is still a loss just the same. It’s okay to grieve, to mourn, to weep. You kneel before the freshly buried earth and lay a flower the color of cheerful yellow. No one told you. No one informed you. No one said you’d be too late for that last goodbye, to bid farewell to certainty—to everything you thought you knew.

The Grave.

The funeral I missed.

No one told me a turn for the worse had been taken.

There were no condolences offered,

No sorry’s or offerings of deepest sympathy.

I was on my own to go at it alone.

As I stand before the grave,

My sadden heart aches.

Death swooped in before life had the chance to live,

And for that I grieve, I mourn, I weep.

Kneeling before the freshly buried earth,

I lay a flower the color of cheerful yellow.

No one told me; No one informed me.

No one said I’d be too late for a last goodbye,

To bid farewell to certainty—

To everything I thought I knew. 

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