Dead Ringer

When you live within a stone's throw from two cemeteries, I suppose it's only natural that you think about death more than the average person.  Despite what most people might assume, though,  I love living near these cemeteries.  They create a relatively undisturbed habitat for plenty of plants and animals, they hold beloved people in their soil (including my own family members), and they are awesome places in which to wander and ponder.

Another upside of our proximity to these cemeteries is that my children have developed excellent lung capacity.  Yes, even at 18 and 21,  they still hold their breath when we pull onto "O" Street and head east. My God!  Why did I let these two quit swimming all those years ago?!  They could have corporate sponsors by now, had they only stuck with the sport!

Maybe it's my "deadly" dot on the map, then, that, lately, has got me remembering all kinds of good people and pets that are no more.  Or maybe it's because this is January--a time of failed resolutions (can you say "nearly 18 hours"?!), frightening forecasts ("polar vortex" anyone?!) and tough anniversaries (my brother's death, my dad's birth--which reminds me of his death--, and my dog's death).

Whatever the reason, I do seem to possess a more robust interest in death than might be considered natural for a middle-aged, middle-class, all-around middling white woman.    It's not that I want to die--that would be ridiculous, especially considering the fact that I just bought these awesome Cuddlduds and am pretty darned close to the Rule of 85 (which spells "retirement," if you didn't know).

But I would be lying if I said that, even as an 18 year old, I never once considered what it would mean if I were no more.  I certainly wasn't suicidal, but I did become rather reflective--at a preternatural age, perhaps--and recognized that I had lived (and continue to live) a pretty wonderful life and, if I had to wrap things up, I would do so with a generally positive attitude.

God help Mark, though, who often has to endure the detritus of my healthy relationship with the ever after.   On a surprisingly regular basis, he is expected to remember the title of a song that I'd like to play at my funeral ("The Cider House" from the film "The Cider House Rules"--please, please, please help him to remember this title).  Or a poem that would be make a terrific bookend to a life relatively well lived ("The Peace of Wild Things" by Wendell Berry, thankyouverymuch). 

For whatever reason, then, these days, when I ponder the End of Things, it's not with a heavy heart, but, rather, with a grateful and full heart, one that has lived and loved and laughed and been inundated with heaps of polyunsaturated fats (Bless me, Father, for I have sinned).  Maybe it's something that only a person who has a good job and can pay her bills each month can have the luxury of saying, but I do love this life--very, very much.

Warts and all, it's still the best gig in town. Which, ironically, means that I will somehow be okay when that gig is up.   Although, selfishly,  I am hoping for a few more encores.