Sometimes I don’t understand the point of life when we ultimately end up in hospitals. In nursing homes. In rehabilitation centers. In assisted-living facilities. In the ground.
I recall a scene from “Hamlet,” when whatever Shakespearean character says even kings become food for the worms in the end.
Even kings become worm food.
Your parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, acquaintances… worm food.
But I carry my grandparents around with me in a special cremain necklace.
Let it be known I’d like to be cremated when I die. The idea of my entire earthly shell being lowered into the ground gives me the heebie jeebies. Turn me to ash and let me fly into the wind. Please.
I’ve always loved Sylvia Plath’s “I Am Vertical,” but am now thinking I never want to be horizontal.
The experience I wrote about in this post happened three years ago tonight.
Hard to believe.