The other day on Facebook, someone posted this:
If I die tomorrow, what would be the one thing you would always remember about me?
A cheerful thought.
And of course, we will never know what people remember about, will we? We’ll be dead.
Will it be good? Bad? Will there be stories told? Will we be forgotten?
Of course, it doesn’t matter. We will be gone.
Still. People want to be remembered. Some are a bit maniacal about it, with monuments and prewritten obituaries. Most of us would be content to have friends and family recall good times, and forgive bad.
At my memorial, if people disobey me and have one, there would need to be an open bar. At the bar, I would hope there would be at least a couple of old guys getting hammered who would start reminiscing and say “you know, Michelle was smart and funny and all that, but you know what I will always remember about her? I will always remember the first time she gave me a blow job.”
OK. I know. Most people want to be remembered for kindness, or their wonderful holiday meals. They want people to have Norman Rockwell memories about them. Not me. If I am remembered at all, I want to be remembered in a different way.
Back to the geezers at the bar. It’s a memorial, so at first everyone would be try to shush them. My nephew would be mortified. Then people would start to laugh. Someone would point out that I would have loved having people drinking to what a sexual Goddes I was. It would cheer the place right up. People would definitely remember it. Rounds of drinks would get ordered. The geezers would compare notes and wonder how many of them there were.
It would be a happy way to be remembered
I suppose there are a few other things I would like for people to remember about me, but now I am very inclined to start compiling a very specific sort of guest list for a party I won’t be able to attend..
I wish I could. My friends and family know how to celebrate!