The finality of it all

While I have no intention of dying soon, the fact that death prowls about, claiming someone earlier than we would expect, came to me last night. I already forgot what I was thinking of that somehow caused me to drift toward the subject and on to the horizon of “what if”. When I returned, I had a last request, and that is all I can call it. The dead cannot make demands.

I would like to explain why this happened, but I shouldn't and I won't. People handle an unexpected death in their own way, and have to find a reason in their own way.

I've seen death strike people down before their time, and sooner or later, the question of why comes up.

I don’t care about the distribution of materials formerly in my possession. I had to learn to let go of things like that.

As for my internment, it's my understanding that my parents set aside a burial plot for me in a cemetery in Tacoma.

I hail from a depressed and unattractive place called Tacoma Washington.

While I know that funerals are for those left behind, it irritates me that my remains should rest in a place that I made every effort to leave behind. I prefer burial in a cemetery in the Sylvan Hills east of Beaverton. When I first came to Oregon, I drove around the Sylvan Hills and there I realized that Oregon is the only land that I love, and that’s where I want my remains to be. Of course, cemeteries are for the living to visit, and being in proximity to them makes sense, but I wonder, who will visit me? People I know in Portland, or people I know in Tacoma? In time, no one will remember, and it will be a moot point.

As to the services, I want to be cremated. Nothing insults the departed more than to have their wishes in this area disregarded.

Of course, if one died by suicide, that word "insulted" would be a tad hypocritical.

I know some folks like to take a last look at the deceased, but let me pass on what I observed the one and only time I ever did such a thing. Seeing the corpse of someone I knew laying in a casket gave me a profound sense of the absence of that person’s spirit. The empty container that once housed him was just that, and I wished my memory of him had not ended with that image.

Let the things I meant and the times with me that mattered be what remains in your memory. The corpse is just an empty house; it should be burned.

There is one last but very important suggestion. I don’t want a preacher extemporizing and officiating anything having to do with me. They have a tendency to hijack every ceremony they are involved in and turn it into a platform for their message. I know it seems like a good time to make the old pitch about salvation, but don’t permit them to abduct the moment. Ceremonies like this are a time when we leave our daily routine and journey together through the collective memories and impressions of one life we all had in common. It’s better to hire a comedian, a dog act, have a roast, or just sing the blues, than to allow one of God’s loquacious messengers to misappropriate the ship and dizzy us while they steer it in circles. Let's keep it on course.

That’s all I have. I know the impact of my death will slowly settle in to the mind and spirit of those who learned what happened to me. It will fade with some, but with others it will seep in and crystallize over time to become a sensitive and permanent part of them.

I think of those who mattered and died, and I'm still affected by their death. It’s difficult to think them without going through the grief again, but I go through it just the same because I want to recall how they made a difference.