When I Die
Knowing the extent to which your life is governed by entries in the calendar, I’m going to be very interested in seeing how my death interferes with your plans. What vacation were you scheduled to take? Which child is graduating from 4th grade that week?
“He would have wanted us to continue guys’ weekend. Also, he’d want Bob to make his stuffed, rolled pork roast.” And then, during the tipsy guys’ weekend keynote address on the last night, Mook raises a toast to me and everything I’ve ever stood for. “And Syracuse Orange basketball! Hiccup.”
Overheard at various water bubblers across town:
“He really would have wanted us to participate in the golf scramble during the memorial service.”
“The last thing he’d want is for us not to bowl in the league championship just because he’s getting lowered into the earth.”
“Of course he wants me to go to this meaningless late spring mid-week Sox game instead of consoling his family.”
I’ll be watching from up there in the clouds with my bowl of heavenly popcorn, getting knuckles from Jesus every time you complain about how inconvenient it was for you that I had to go and croak that week. Guess what? There’s another year in Purgatory for you, buddy. How ya like me now!
“He would have wanted us to drink the rest of his homebrew before it goes stale.”