Blasted into space

We have been having potentially morbid conversations about if, and how, we would like to be remembered, starting with the funeral service. This was brought on by my father-in-law sending an updated will. The level of detail he had gone into was quite unsettling, so we started meandering to distract our minds. My father-in-law wants a braai party with all his family and friends and his favourite music instead of a funeral service, and he wants to attend in the form of his ashes on the mantelpiece. If he’d thought about it he would have asked to be the table centrepiece I reckon so that is where I would suggest we put him to make sure he doesn’t miss out. I guess he wants to be remembered as the fabulous host he is.

Personally I hope that my children will cherish some memories and that they will feel they have learnt something from me.  Beyond that I couldn’t care less. If my greatest desire were to leave an imprint in the universe then I’d do it in my lifetime. So I told my husband that if I were to die first  – which is highly unlikely, given his diet and the statistics on life expectancy – he was free to mark my passing as he pleased. Or not at all. To which he promptly answered that he was planning to have my ashes blasted into space. I am left wondering what I am most upset at: the fact that he had an answer ready, or the idea of being flung the furthest possible away. I guess he has made his point: it seems I do care what happens to me after I die.

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