Reflections on an Unveiling.
So my grandmother died. Not recently, it was almost a year ago. We buried her in October, at a cemetery, obviously. And now we’re back at that cemetery for her unveiling. I got to see her headstone for the first time, with her name, the day she was born, the day she — y’know, everything you put on a headstone. And then, I started thinking about the same thing I always think of whenever I’m at a cemetery. Or by myself, more often then I’d like.
That one day, I’m going to die. We all will. That the sacks of meat we call our bodies will age, shrivel up and just shut down, and that all I have to look forward to is a headstone of my own and a future of nonexistence.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?? You’re not supposed to be thinking about death, you’re young! Live your life!” I know, I get it, it’s…it’s just the quiet moments. Like when I’m in bed, or when I don’t have anything going on…I can’t help but think. If only there was some way of knowing I could live on after I’m six feet under, then I’d sleep a lot easier.
My grandmother was an artist. She was a painter. A writer, like I am. And now she’s just a footnote in history, like all the other headstones. And maybe that’s the most terrifying thing: in the end, we’re all destined to be footnotes. Can I accept that? I don’t know.
The least I can do is leave something behind.
