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?
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.