Once the imagination and or curiosity is awakened… it forever drives us.
Two nights ago, 8 year-old Everett informed his parents over pesto chicken precisely how he expects his body to be handled upon his death:
“I don’t want to be cremated. Or buried. I want to be standing up or on a motorcycle. With sunglasses.”
As I have mentioned before, many of Everett’s dinner table comments are out-of-the-blue. Non sequiturs. The sort of statements that can make a parent’s fingers loose, releasing a suddenly heavy fork to plonk on a plate, loudly. Or make a parent’s head snap upwards while driving, to search for Everett’s face in the rear view mirror. The parent must assess Everett’s facial expression to confirm — savant or psychopath? Obama or Gallagher (the melon-smashing, bald comedian)? Maybe all of the above?
The burial discussion, though, fell perfectly in context. Not because we enjoy stewing about death over pesto chicken. Not because we…
View original post 642 more words