My twenty-nine year old son is going to turn me into a tree when I die, I’m pretty sure. I think he/they should do whatever they want, and whatever they need.
I am reading a novel called Beautiful Day by Elin Hilderbrand, in which a woman, dead for seven years, left a notebook written for her young daughter’s future wedding. “The Notebook” came complete with excruciatingly detailed directives. Maybe the sentiment is nice, but to me it screams control freak.
Death is one of those scary things that we can’t even pretend to control. We are forced into submitting, and for the most part none of us like it.