Posts tagged ‘Death’

When I Die

When I die I don’t want a monument with my face on it. I don’t want a party, with all of my friends mourning/ celebrating my death and all the lousy things they remember about me. I want silence.

I want the world to spin faster, and I want people to be too preoccupied with their lives to remember I’m gone.

Okay, I’m lying.

But still, sometimes I feel that way.

When I die I really want to be there to watch them bury my body. I want to make sure their doing it right, that I’m wearing my favorite jeans and that t-shirt my little sister Kalie made in art class. The one with the uneven pink stripes. I don’t even like pink, but she’d spend a month making it for my birthday, so I don’t want to leave that behind when I go.

I want to hover around in my ghostly form, and watch my mom cooking pasta in the kitchen, my father messing with the car in the garage, and when all of my aunts and uncles and cousins come over to cry over my ugly picture on the mantle, I want to stand off to the side, silently. Because it’s familiar, not being noticed I mean.

I wonder if anyone will even know I’m dead. Or if I’ll have moved too far away from everyone for them to reach me. Maybe someone will find me ‘sleeping’, smelling up the place and finally decide to call the cops or something.

Or maybe I’ll be on a cruise – like that’ll actually happen, but hey, I’m still young so I may learn to love those old people things. I’ll be leaning on the railings, and fall, and because I’m just so damn quiet, no one will realize I’m drowning until they’re miles away. And I can’t swim, so, there’s no way I’m getting back to the boat.

When I die, I want my death to be loud and obnoxious, something I never had the guts to be in life. I want fireworks, and arguments over what flowers to place on my grave, and the satisfaction that every time someone thinks of me, they want to scream – either from the pain of missing me, or frustration, or anger because they hated me so damn much.

I want a 6am parade that wakes up those people next door, the ones who always told me to pick up my pants because they were hanging too low and showing my ass. They know they loved looking at it, those pervs.

And I want thick socks, because they’re probably gonna put me in that part of hell that actually freezes over.

When I die, I’m giving all of my Pokemon cards to Charles, because hes the only one I know who still plays the game. I want my clothes burned so no one can look as good as me, and I want to give my stash of money to my mom so she can finally get her hair done by professionals. My dad can have my phone, because god know he needs something other than his ’90’s flip phone, with half of the buttons no longer working. Everything else I have, they can do what they want with it. I never really cared for it anyway.

And when I die, I want to die peacefully and painlessly.

I don’t want a heart attack, or those weird parasite that you can only get from the Amazon that eat your brains or something. I want to be like those old people who know their going, and kiss their grand kids’ foreheads, hug their children, then fall asleep.

That’s what I want.

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Rapid

By Christian Sopkowiak.

It was too late. The river had begun to fill my lungs and I swear I saw the darkness they talk about when you are dying. The unfathomable weight of my drenched clothes began to contribute to my drowning. The lack of oxygen in this prison was becoming unbearable. What sucked most of all, I could not even see the sun.

My entire body was submerged under the tortuous blue of the water. The rapids were destructive that day and of course, I decided to try the canoe today. It was stupid, in hindsight. But, I was drowning, dying, losing, and trying to…

My scalp felt the rays of the sun for a moment and I knew I would have a moment of air. That liberating moment occurred seconds after the sun graced my head. My head bobbed out of the water for about ten seconds.

The heat radiated across my face and I gulped all the air I could. I used all of my strength, my muscle, and my will power for those ten seconds. The rapids tore me back down and I tried to remember the taste of the air.

Immediately, my body jerked towards one side then it ripped towards the other. My head snapped to the left when my body went to the right. The water tore me without thought or reason. One moment I would be towards the shore and the next, I would be drowning in the brunt of the rapids. My head snapped to the left, this time. I knew I would be jerked somewhere next so I put my hands out to try to stop the water from pushing me but that was only my instinct, not my logic. I was under for, well, a few more minutes I suppose before the rapids gave me another moment of air.

I raised my hand out of the water and the rapids decided that meant I got my chance. They ripped me out of the water, for a moment, and I swallowed the air. I gasped, opened my eyes to see boulders everywhere. But, I heavily inhaled that unseen remedy as my head once again enjoyed the sun’s warming rays. I swear, air tastes so damn good when you need it.

Then, I went back. The rapids once again grabbed me and did not let go. This time, I opened my eyes under water to see the damage. The water was moving sideways then upside down then towards me. I also saw my feet, they were dangling, lifeless it seemed. The water had taken them too. The water began rushing towards my pupils so I closed my eyes. That was when I slammed into the boulder.

The rock was sitting the midst of the rapids and my body crashed into it. I grabbed onto the boulder, my ribs felt broken, my legs mangled. I struggled to gasp for air, let alone breath. The water wanted me for itself, it kept trying to tear me from the boulder. I needed air, somewhere, somehow. I swear, the boulder had crunched some of my ribs to bits and my feet were numb. Every breath began to feel like my last as my ribs attacked my skin and my lungs began to give up. So, I climbed up or at least I tried to. The rapids kept coming, trying to pull me down for more. My adrenaline must have been pumping because I did it. I was able to get my eyes above the water and I saw the sun again. In that moment, I wanted to wait there, forever, and look at the pale yellow light above me.

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After the Death-Part 1

I didn’t know who my Grandma was.

I didn’t know, never had.

How was I supposed to clean out her house, plan her funeral, and keep her children from committing suicide?

I had finished the kitchen of this house. I was commissioned to pack the stuff into boxes and “give it to someone else.” I refused to do that. I kept some of it, of course, because I was going to get my reward for this. Other things, most of it, really, was put into flimsy cardboard boxes I had gotten from a nearby gas station dumpster.

I labeled the boxes with a red sharpie for the kids.

“Pam.”

“Dylan.”

“Catherine.”

They might hate me for it later and that was fine. I knew a decent amount of people who didn’t like my cynical manner and that was okay.

Today, in this bright 5am morning, I was going to eat before I started work.

I inhaled the scent of the sausage burrito from MacDonald’s and unwrapped it. I took a bite, letting the calories fill my mouth and surveyed the attic, where I was sitting on an old wooden chair. I was fascinated by attics, always had been.

This one, however, was a bit different than I had hoped for. There were boxes but, oh man, no one ever mentions the DUST. There was ever so much dust around me. With my free hand, I reached over and pried open a small wooden box.

I figured I would find old, saved Christmas letters from the year 1930 or something. What I found was alcohol. Too early, I told myself as I picked up a few of the bottles and examined the names. Might have to try some of these.

 Grandma, hiding alcohol? Seemed like a funny thing to just put up in the attic when she just as easily could have pulled it out during some sort of family gathering. Although, now that I thought about it, enough of the family already drowned their problems in alcohol. I remember my grandma hosting family gatherings and all of the cousins bringing their own beer coolers.

Family was kind of stressful, I thought to myself as I walked around the attic, looking for another likely box to open. Instead, I found a letter on top of one of the many piles of junk around and decided to open it.

Prying wasn’t bad when someone was dead, right? Its not like anyone was going to see this unless I read it first, anyways. I tore open the letter and looked at it. She was long winded but had beautiful handwriting.

The letter was fascinating and gave me a small inkling that maybe I should have gotten to know her better while she was alive instead of assuming she was some boring old person.

 Dear Whomever Finds This,

You must be cleaning my attic. Maybe I am in an old person home or just plain passed on to the grave? Wherever I am, I wish you well with cleaning this attic out. I’ve prayed for you many times before, since I know the job ahead of you is not an easy one. I have accumulated a lot of stuff but I imagine that will be the easiest part of dealing with an empty house. It seems, often, that empty houses create empty hearts. I’ve certainly had an empty heart before, or at least what I thought was an empty heart until I remembered that those around me still wanted a place in my heart whether it be family or friends.

A few notes for you:

The attic has a lot of old stuff and you might try selling it to an antique shop. Most of the basement is a bunch of junk, as far as I’m concerned, as it was my late husbands packrat storage area. My jewelry…I hope that will get to some of the younger women in the family. The letters may prove of interest to the people they are addressed to, but should be given at the right time. You may also find some other surprises in the house and I wish you well. I dearly wish for the next person to own this house will love it like I loved it because I certainly hate to think of the empty hearts it will create.

 God bless you,

Edna Brownstone 

Ps. I left some boxes labeled for the neighbors. They didn’t all like me but they all deserve love so if you find anything you think they’d want, please pass it on to them!

 

If this were a book, would you keep reading? -Trixie

Skype Funeral

I am sitting down on my lawn chair by the water, watching a Skype funeral.

It’s nice to be able to look away if the funeral gets too sad, although this one isn’t too bad. It’s my third this week but I don’t really know the person. I’m simply watching it because my friend said that they paid for the upgrade for the funeral Design Piks and they apparently have an eccentric taste.

WELCOME scrolls across the black screen in glitzy gold letters. I feel rather odd being welcomed to a funeral but it is the fashion to start with a welcome for all of the Skype funerals ever since the first one four years ago.

The screen pans over many pictures of the man, Harold Hansen. They must have taken video of a bunch of his printed photos and then set it to fast forward. I am not really impressed with the expensive payment so far.

From the pictures, I notice that he was an ugly baby but made up for it in his teen and early twenty years and even as an old man he looked pretty spry.

The next part, the screen flashes brightly and they are showing this picture of the man right before he died. I wasn’t expecting the flash, like a little bit of heaven. I wonder absentmindedly if he went to heaven or not.

“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls,” a background voice announces, almost like we are at some sort of carnival or theatre. “We are glad to have you, yes every one of you, join us for this special event. According to our statistics, over 3 million viewers are currently watching the funeral of Harold Hansen.”

They are panning the camera over the casket and I look away. A soothing female voice interrupts my lake viewing with, “Hansen was a man..” they flash pictures of manly men, “A man to be remembered.” They flash pictures of statues and oil paintings and such things as that.

So far the graphics have been phenomenal, but people can get that type of thing on their old, out of date iPhone Argent 7’s now so I don’t’ really see where the upgrade money really helped. They transitions between pictures and audio has been nice too, I guess.

And then they get to the documentary part. It tells of Harold’s life and shows different video segments that he took and that his is it. It is really quite vintage looking and as I follow him through high school years or leather jackets and college years of unopened textbooks, I feel like I know him.

I look to the white caps on the lake again while they discuss his first wedding. His wife was quite beautiful, I notice when I look back at the screen. There is a black and white picture of them kissing and I wonder if he looked at it a lot.

The later part of his life was rather dull when he did some important political things. I stop paying attention as the video goes on twenty minutes. I don’t know how long it is projected to take. I let my mind go back to the first Skype Funeral I ever attended.

It was for Lady Gaga. We were told, via the press, that she was only having a Skype funeral as per her will. It was the huge rave and, of course her family paid for all of the Skpe users to watch it at the same time. You see the main part of the funeral on the top as a partial live stream and partial pre-recorded segment from some studio that makes stuff like this and then on the bottom inch of the screen, all of the faces of other users watching the funeral with you.

There were over 20 million ‘attendees’ of her funeral.

Gaga’s funeral truly was monumental and paved the way for the future. They played parts of each of her songs and different quotes from interviews and it was weird, of course, all put together in a strange Skype video.

And so it became the fashion right then and there. They didn’t tell us until later that she had actually had a real funeral to go along with the Skype one and that we hadn’t attended her “one and only” funeral. But by then the idea of a Skype funeral had taken over.

And here I am now. They are finally done with Harold’s life story. “There will be a statue of Harold in New York and we hope you will al come visit it as a tribute.” They are playing Amazing Grace as the leaving song but right in the middle, the words “Special Announcement” pop up on the screen. I watch them scroll.

“Do you really want this to be our world? Do you really want to be watching Skype funerals with your ass stuck to your chair? All electronic and no real emotion? What about welcoming your children into a world that you are proud of instead of into more and more Skype funerals? –Harold Hansen”

Amazing Grace continues to play and I log out. I would give this Skype Funeral a disappointing B. Skype funerals are to remember the person and feel for them, not about tut-tutting the world for something that has allowed more people to mourn for those they loved. Oh well, one dud for the week isn’t so bad.

I have three hours until my next Skype funeral and I hope it won’t be as crappy as this one was.

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