The Spiteful Corpse
by My husband and I were visiting our son’s grave, when a funeral began nearby. It appeared that it was for an elderly man, his wife being helped from the limousine in tears and only a few mourners in attendance. It wasn’t a very long ceremony, but it was a hot day and the gravediggers were intent on getting their job done quickly as the mourners left the grave site. I leaned over to my husband, commenting discreetly, “You know, one of us has to die first, right?” His response was quick and not surprising. “After you”.
We had talked about death many times over the years. As funerals are for the living, I have decided not to have one of my own. I wouldn’t lie down in a box and let people line up to stare at me while I‘m alive, when I presumably look better than after whatever I will have died from has killed me, so why would I allow it after I’m dead? I’ll be damned if I’ll be the guest of honor at a party when I can’t even work the room, and let everyone go off to lunch while I stay locked in a box while they say nice things about me that I can‘t even hear. No, I’ll do all my socializing while I’m still alive. Then to get that box locked up and buried beneath the ground isn’t the most pleasant idea either. Of course, choices being limited, being set on fire does not sound much better, but I did that by accident once, leaning on someone’s gas range. I defended my own stupidity by bragging about how I was able to turn on major appliances with my ass. It is still the lesser of two evils, but neither do I want to sit on my kids’ mantle waiting to be knocked over by a clumsy relative. If I opt for cremation, requesting my ashes be spread to my specifications, besides being more environmentally considerate, I can be more creative. If I request to be distributed a little bit at a time, such as some during the neighbor’s memorial day picnic, or maybe a little right after he finishes washing that road hog of his. At the very least, a little sprinkle on a windy day when he goes for his walk. If I’m lucky, I might still be able to cause him the slightest little discomfort even after death, perhaps landing right in his eye. It serves him right, outliving me, not that he would know that right away as I have decided not to have an obituary either. It would make some people entirely too happy and I see too many of them saying, “She’s finally a good read.“
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