When I Pass Into The Great Unknown...

I would like to officially request that, on the occasion of my death, I am not propped in a corner so that I may join you for a three day wake. Please also, please do not feel any sort of obligation to put my face on a t-shirt, or any other article of clothing that you may wear out into public. Though some of you may be likewise tempted, do not put my name on the back of your car in adhesive letters with any sort on "In Memory Of" messages. It would also not be advised that you have my likeness tattooed anywhere on your body (these things never turn out the way that you hope!), and while I do understand that your grief may at times be insurmountable, know that sometimes something so simple as a tasteful bouquet may speak volumes. (The more daring among you, however, are more than welcome to drink my rendered ashes in a tea, as there is a certain poetry to this action, or so I've always thought.)

It's not that I plan on shuffling off this mortal coil any time soon (though one never knows, things happen, and etc), it's just that it appears that you need to make your wishes known as concisely (and as soon) as possible. Take the case of one young Puerto Rican man, 24 year old Angel Pantoja Medina. He was recently found lifeless beneath a bridge, but had, thankfully, thought to express to his family that, were anything to happen to him, he should like to stand for his funeral, thank you very much. "He wanted to be happy, standing", said his brother Carlos, and stand he did, though it appears to be more of a lean or a prop, for yes, three days. It's not the idea of a three day wake that bothers me so much as the thought of having myself propped in a corner for three days like a cast off from the wax works. ("Oh well! We'll get it right next time! Madame Tussaud is just going to have to wait on this one" the waxsmith says as he takes of his gloves and rubs his hands on his pants before heading home to his supper and his family.)

I'd think, and again, this might just be me, that were you the family, you might also have the inclination to lay your loved one down for the evening. Could you really sleep knowing that your sibling, child, parent or partner is propped in the corner of the dining room? What if you needed a glass of water or the toilet in the night? Wouldn't that be a shock to run into, half asleep and likely still a little boozy (so I'd hope, were it my wake)? "Jesus! Oh, sorry; you scared me! Oh. GOD."

My grandmother's funeral was planned (and years in advance) much the same way some people plan weddings; in short, with military precision. Hymns were accounted for, speakers requested, singers lined up; I can't recall, but there may have even been an alternates list if any of the A list talent happened to precede her. What she didn't account for, however, (though in reality I'm sure she quite expected it) was her youngest daughter getting lost on the way to the cemetery. The cemetery itself was a family plot some 80 miles outside of the city, and only the immediate family made the journey. Everyone arrived in short order (my grandmother first, as she was the first of the family to any event) and we waited. My two young nieces chased each other around fir trees almost as old as the charges they watched over, waving found pheasant feathers in the Kansas wind while the rest of us wandered among the stones. My mother and sister and I, walking slow circles, stooping and reading names of countless frontier babies. Beside the casket stood the minister, talking to my father with the men from the mortuary (boys almost, younger than me), impatient, and ready to shovel dirt and be on their way. Eventually my aunt arrived, all apologies and in a cloud of limestone dust from the road, and things got under way, this having been the only hitch to an otherwise flawless (though heart heavy) day.

Perhaps death is the last chance to dictate our terms to the living; a funeral the one party where you're allowed to want everything just so with no compromises. One wonders if the dead receive any satisfaction in this; in our running around fulfilling their wishes, often without question. Our hearts heavy like stones in our chests, like lead sash weights pressing into our stomachs, as we promise This time, this time I promise I won't let you down.


photo Juan Alicea Mercado / AP