He says he wants to know what I want done with my ashes knowing I want to be cremated.
I tell him I need to think about that for a while, knowing that “while” could be an ever shortening lifespan, but I dare not tell him that, it simply wouldn’t be acceptable he would respond, setting off another endless discussion.
I don’t say that time, in this rare instance, is on my side for truth be told I don’t care what he does with my ashes, I am gone and that’s that , bit a nice spot in the center of the mantle in the formal living room would be nice.
When it’s time, i suppose I’d like to go like my dog and cat, slipping away as they were gently stroked. It could be like that, there’s a chance but I can’t count on it, no one can. I never did try skydiving, too late, now and so a failed or fouled chute won’t be my fate and the closest I came to auto racing was a weekend at Bondurant and my skill limited my career to local road rallying in college, and few die in under-powered Opels. Maybe I’ll know my end is near, and maybe not but it won’t be in a blaze of glory and my ashes will sit on some mantle because only those of the famous, like Richie Havens, get spread from the plane over Woodstock. But, then again, none of that will be my problem, so screw it.