When Death Comes

I apologize for the lack of updates. Things have been rather hectic lately.

I went to my grandfather’s funeral yesterday. He wasn’t there. His ashes had already been spread over the countryside days before. I was going to say I’m sure he was there in spirit, but I still haven’t really decided what I believe about the afterlife. I’m still not really sure if I would have even liked to believe he was there in spirit.

It was a beautiful service, very simple and quiet and heartwarming, much like my grandfather. It was a great tribute to him. I was especially moved by my mother who stood up to speak from the heart, with no pre written words to guide her. Although I’m sure she thought about it before she stood up, it didn’t feel like she needed to. She sounded so honest and raw and real. It was the first time I ever remember seeing her like that with anyone but me. I cried as she spoke about what a difficult child she had been, how patient and caring her stepfather was with her. I cried because it was the first time I ever really knew.

Later in the day, I began thinking about my own funeral. I’m sure it sounds relatively morbid considering I’m only twenty, but I thought about what would happen if I died tomorrow. What would the tribute to me look like? Because I’m only twenty, I don’t have a will of any kind made up for myself. I don’t really need one seeing as I don’t own anything of real value to leave anyone. Still, I worry sometimes that my death won’t be handled the way I wish it to be while I’m still alive.

But then, I still don’t know what I believe about life after death. I don’t know if it would even make a difference, if I would even know how things were handled. I guess, deep down, I’d like to think that I would.

It will make me sad to be placed into a box, into the ground. I want every physical feature I have that can be useful to be taken from me and given to someone in need. I want the remainder of me to be made into ash and given back to the wind, the sky, the earth from which I came.

I don’t want a traditional funeral. I don’t want to be remembered in a church or a synagogue. I don’t want a biography read about me listing all of the things I’ve accomplished. I want my friends and family to gather together in some beautiful, inviting place, somewhere outside or in a home that means something to all of us. I want people to laugh. I want the stories shared about me to be the goofy tales that we share with each other now, the little remembrances of character that make us who we are. I want people to know who I was.

On the way to the service, my mother said it was so interesting to read my blog and be able to see me for the person I am, far beyond the label of her daughter. She said it was such a strange realization to be introduced to this identity that she had never recognized in me. It’s sort of true. I am a different person in my writing than I am in reality. I am a different person with my friends than I am with my family. I am a different person right now than I will be a minute from now.

And while all of those sides of me compose the “real” me, I love being able to write because I feel like this is the version of me that I really want to be. This is how I want to be remembered. Not as a person who once had a life, but as a person who loved to live.