Nothing makes you feel close to death like preparing your will.
My mom asked me to prepare a will before I leave for Guatemala on Friday. She’s convinced I’m going to die while I’m down there.
I could go any number of ways, she frets: while riding one of the notoriously dangerous buses, by the hand of a kidnapper, or due to some freak volcanic eruption (probably doesn’t help that we watched Dante’s Peak the other day – woefully unrealistic movie that it is).
Surely it also doesn’t help that I recently confessed to her my long-standing belief that I’ll die relatively young. A lot of people scoff at this when I tell them. I haven’t had a premonition; the news wasn’t relayed via a palm reader or a Ouija board. I just have a feeling.
And also, the fact that I, just last week, found out that the kind of cancer I had when I was seventeen could blossom anew in my body, no matter how long I’ve been in “remission.” I’m sure that unexpected information didn’t help to bestow any confidence in my life line.
So we sit in the car driving to the movie house to see Harry Potter on the big screen. We talk about whether or not I would want to be buried, cremated, or both and what I want done with my ashes. My idea for my wake/funeral falls out of my mouth, something like a weekend-long kegger with bonfires and lawn games and more laughing than sobbing, and mom likens it to an Irish wake which I think is fitting, since I’m Irish. We talk about it like we’re planning it until I get quiet and she responds by assuring me that she doesn’t “think this will actually happen or anything.”