(no subject)
What do you want on your tombstone and why?
I don’t want a tombstone. Or a grave. I don’t want to be in some limbo somewhere thinking about my son laying flowers for me. Touching my name so that he can remember what his dad looked like or what his voice sounded like saying, ‘I love you.’ Maybe it’s selfish, not leaving my family anything to go back to and know that at least my presence is there for them but I can’t stand the thought of any of them turning up and talking to a bit of marble with my name printed on it.
There’s no doubt there’ll be a turn out at the funeral, or I’d ask them to keep it small in advance. In my line of work there’s a lot of people who’d turn up to pay their respects to my family and then share a drink, raise a glass because they’re good people. Good cops, good agents. And good everything in between.
But funerals are supposed to be about saying goodbye and really, how can you say goodbye when you’ve got somewhere to go and dwell, to remember? John Williamson once said, “Anyone can hate. It costs to love.” And he was more than right. It costs to give someone a special place in your heart and when they pass, it costs to say goodbye to them but inevitably you have to. You have to send them off with love and have peace left for yourself otherwise you tear yourself apart and forget to go on living. You become as dead inside as the person you lost.
When I die I want to go safe and secure in the knowledge that the people who mean the most to me, lover and son, parents … that they’ll remember me for who I was, not for the hole in the ground that they visit every weekend and mourn over again. I want to know that in their heart of hearts they’ve moved on. I want to know that they’re happy.
That’s all that matters in the end, not words on a tombstone.
I don’t want a tombstone. Or a grave. I don’t want to be in some limbo somewhere thinking about my son laying flowers for me. Touching my name so that he can remember what his dad looked like or what his voice sounded like saying, ‘I love you.’ Maybe it’s selfish, not leaving my family anything to go back to and know that at least my presence is there for them but I can’t stand the thought of any of them turning up and talking to a bit of marble with my name printed on it.
There’s no doubt there’ll be a turn out at the funeral, or I’d ask them to keep it small in advance. In my line of work there’s a lot of people who’d turn up to pay their respects to my family and then share a drink, raise a glass because they’re good people. Good cops, good agents. And good everything in between.
But funerals are supposed to be about saying goodbye and really, how can you say goodbye when you’ve got somewhere to go and dwell, to remember? John Williamson once said, “Anyone can hate. It costs to love.” And he was more than right. It costs to give someone a special place in your heart and when they pass, it costs to say goodbye to them but inevitably you have to. You have to send them off with love and have peace left for yourself otherwise you tear yourself apart and forget to go on living. You become as dead inside as the person you lost.
When I die I want to go safe and secure in the knowledge that the people who mean the most to me, lover and son, parents … that they’ll remember me for who I was, not for the hole in the ground that they visit every weekend and mourn over again. I want to know that in their heart of hearts they’ve moved on. I want to know that they’re happy.
That’s all that matters in the end, not words on a tombstone.