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Turning Up My Toes

Last week, our youngest child said she planned to put my ashes in an hour glass so I can continue to take part in family game nights. We laughed hysterically about the idea before I told her that no, that doesn't sound very fun to me.

By the way, I'm not actively dying.

We speak candidly of death in our family. Oddly enough, the two younger ones will approach the subject of my demise more often than they do their father's. Maybe they do so because they have an underlying fear of my sudden departure. Maybe they do so because I try to get them see the lighter side of death by cracking jokes with them. I don't know if I do that to quell their fears or mine. Probably for them. I am more curious than frightened of the afterlife, if there is one, but the idea of missing out on their lives does break my heart.

Thus far, we have discussed:

  • Shooting my ashes into space. Returning to the star dust from whence I came sounds marvelous. I shall be a red vapor dancing amongst the planets.

  • Gently seasoning the landscape of multiple national parks with just a pinch of Pearce. I have been careful to explain why they should stand upwind when doing so. A mouthful of mom sounds disgusting. I'm pretty sure I won't taste that great.

  • Mixing them with a root ball of a sapling so that one day I can grow into a magnificent whomping tree. Oh how I long to snap my twigs at someone working my last root!

  • Swirling them into molten glass for a decorative paperweight that will eventually land on a shelf in a Goodwill, complete with a gnarly chip and a thin layer of oily dust that won't quite wash off.

  • Stuffing them into fireworks so that I may go out with a bang.

I do plan on creating a death box for when I give up the ghost. This box shall contain a random selection of items for memorial guests such as hula hoops and commemorative kazoos. Either of those will be way cooler and more useful than a paper memorial card that will be shoved into the corner of a closet a few weeks after the service. A card that itemizes the basics of my existence in a flowery font but does little to express who I really am.

I also have a theme song chosen. I'm Not Sorry by The Golden Palominos. My plan is to slide into death without regrets in a short dress with too much lipstick.

You can listen to it here:

Thankfully, they have not yet felt the pain of loss. I can only describe it to them and my words will never convey the enormity of the experience. Knowing it first hand is another level of understanding that I wish they never had to face. Our son has felt this, though it was many years ago and he has only a vague memory. I can't help but think that it is still shaping him today.

If there is a world beyond this one, I hope I may linger to watch over them once I turn up my toes. I did promise Mr. P that I would let him know, in no uncertain poltergeist terms, whether or not a new girlfriend is acceptable. I intend to keep it simple by writing in the fog of the bathroom mirror for him. If she's a real piece of work, then I will shatter every glass item near her head until she runs screaming in fear. I certainly expect the same of him if he travels first.

None of these things are meant to imply that I wish to die. I am too busy living a fantastic life of my own creation. I just simply plan to have an equally fabulous death as well.

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