Death at One's Elbow
Journal entry re my life's work, plus thoughts on my last will and testament
Lately, I am gripped by the fever of wanting to write a last will and testament so I can have it notarized before mailing it to my sister.
Per her only request, the cats will be hers if anything should happen to me before Chrissy or Zelda crosses Rainbow Bridge. I've already compiled a list of music to be played at my memorial service, though these days I'm not so keen on any such thing. My sister knows to cremate me, though I haven't yet told her that I want half of my ashes sent to Ireland and scattered across the sidewalk in front of the clock tower on Michael Street in Tipperary. I’d like the other half sealed inside an empty Pringles can and placed on a shelf in some random Goodwill Store.
So many loose ends to tend to, even though from time to time I am paralyzed by the thought of no longer being.
The nothingness, the finality of death, weighs heavy on my mind, but not nearly as heavy as the anxiety over when the end will come and how.
Is meeting my end after another 10 or 15 years of living too near or too distant a timeframe? Will it be drawn out, interminable, or will it feel like being snatched out of the water and carried away clutched in the talons of an osprey? Would it be better to be carried away by an owl? Is this considered an honorable death among rodents and other small, nocturnal animals?
Despite being plagued by thoughts of death, all that matters to me on any regular basis is starting and finishing my magnum opus, which, on most days, bubbles and roils over the side of a vessel that cannot contain it.
I’m talking about my brain.