Another visit to the funeral home tonight. I must be getting to that age. Its getting to be a regular thing. I'm not being flippant, its just something that I've noticed--especially when my daughter noted that she hadn't been to a funeral since her grandpa died a few years ago. It used to be something I could measure in years,, then months, now its every other month or so, and in a few years it will be monthly and then a few times a month and then who knows...
I've thought about my own funeral or memorial service--on my good days, I can even go along with calling it a celebration of life. Mostly I want good music, fun stories, and a few tears. But then, is it just me, or does everyone want to know that they are going to be missed.
That egotistical part of me wants wailing and keening and fighting over the ashes to alternate with laughing and vodka shots and pictures of all the fun my life has been. My kids can tell you all the lies I told them, John can tell you all the silly things I've been afraid of, friends can go on and on about how I always thought I was right no matter what the topic.
Living, dying, heaven, hell, other possibilities? Iris Dement, in her song, "Let the Mystery Be" says:
Everybody's wondering what and where they all come from
Everybody's worrying 'bout where they're gonna go
When the whole thing's done
Nobody knows for certain
And so it's all the same to me
I think I'll just let the mystery be.
