lousy options

Though neither of us expected to, Jack and I had both made it to 80 recently and, this evening, had gotten together to celebrate our good fortune. Beers in hand, we were standing on his balcony across the street from a large cemetery.


"When the time comes," he asked, "do you intend to be buried in dirt or incinerated and tossed to the wind?"


"Lousy options, aren’t they," I  said. "The being tossed to the wind part is the only part appeals to me, so I’ve chosen the least lousy option and let it be known I wish to be incinerated. But I’m not to end up a plaque on some plaque-covered wall—I want a proper gravestone to remind people I’ve been here—nothing ostentatious, just a simple black stone with a water bowl for dogs built into its base and with an  inscription reading—


'SIX FEET UNDER, ROCK ON MY HEAD,

SHORT OF BREATH, POSSIBLY DEAD,

OR PERHAPS ADRIFT IN THE ATMOSPHERE,

CAST TO THE WIND, NOT EVEN HERE’. "


"Love it. A jokester to the end."


"And beyond."


"Yes, and beyond—even in death, going for the laugh."


"And why not? I’ll have little else to do."


"Reminds me, a bit, of those two New Yorker cartoons you had taped to your fridge when you lived on Roehampton. I can’t remember the cartoons but I remember laughing at them."


"One featured a gravestone inscribed 'I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK'."


"Right. Very funny. And the other?"


"A gravestone inscribed 'NEVER SICK A DAY IN MY LIFE AND NOW THIS."


He laughed. "That was my favourite."


"Mine, too."

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