Notes At And On The End

I find it to be the most utterly pretentious notion to contemplate who will be present at my funeral. After all, I’ll be dead, and you’ll be wasting your time looking at a portrait of me since, should my wishes actually be followed and not bastardized like the adaptation of The Hobbit was, my ashes will be tucked in the core of a tree somewhere. What a dreadful waste of time for all of us to assemble here, truly. 

I find it equally, hilariously pretentious, even from the eternal void of whatever comes next, that instead of what I assume is a wonderfully constructed eulogy, I usurped the lectern from the great beyond to write my own. I was once told I’m dramatic and I must live up to (err die up to…?) such billing. 

First, let it be known that I do actually appreciate your presence here today, previous comment notwithstanding. You could have been anywhere else and yet you chose to waste it listening to the ghostly words of a dead man. Let this be your first warning and lesson: the best thing the dead can do for us is to remind us to live. Alas, here you are! Know that even at the end, I was a sarcastic jagoff. My father always said when he died, he wanted the mortician to sew his hand to a keg tap so he could pour one out for everyone, and I always appreciated that sentiment. After all, it’s a fitting sendoff before you descend upon the estate like locusts to the harvest. I jest, I jest, you’re much better people than that and yet still not half as good as my lawyers are. I am certain that the living present will remember your presence fondly.

But as I said, my dearly departed soul appreciates your presence. I assume this is being read to a full room. If not, well this is simultaneously awkward and also on-brand. If I’ve done my duty, then I’ve done quite a bit to better the lives of those around me, make an impression on the world. As I enter my twilight years and the oppressive spectre of the reaper follows me to bed each night, I find myself dwelling on that impact. When I was a young lad, I thought impact meant a line in the history books, but age teaches you that the line in the history books is so rarely worth the cost of your soul. Do I really want to be next to ___?

Then as my name found ever more concrete pillars in this fine earth, whether it be in a library or a museum, I realized how big the world truly is and how long the annals of history truly are. Millions of names. Millions of dead forgotten before one century tolls to the next. Unequal in birth, equal in death, just as Seneca said. It begs the question, how should one want to be remembered? Does the intent matter even? 

Or is it, like the quality of this funeral, an irrelevant question? I’m dead after all, why would I care? 

My gut is that I shouldn’t care, yet here I am lecturing from beyond the grave like ghosts of academia past. If I’m being honest, my intent when this was initially drafted was to spite my critics, though I doubt any of that considerable host are in attendance today. If they are, know that if I rose from the beyond, I wouldn’t kick them out. They were important too, but let them remember that no scorching profile they might pen will ever be more critical of my bibliography than my own inner critic.

The fact is I do care. I care about all of you. I care about the impact left, not written in stone and ink, but in blood and endorphins. There’s a poetic irony in that–that the medium which must decay to dust is that which sculpts the greatest statue of Adonis. This assembled posterity constitutes a greater, more robust legacy than any penned foreword or afterward, than any placard or lecture. We all might depart this earth. We all will depart this earth. While breath fills your lungs, before formaldehyde coats your veins, etch your own legacy upon the souls around you whether it be the person seated beside you now, or the beggar you pass on the street. The supernova gets written in journals across the world, despite its fleeting intensity, while the stars are only remembered in the collective. Our lives are short, let them burn white hot and when all the kindling and fuel crumbles to ash, let the intensity of it echo through the ages. 

And with that, I think I’ll take a nice long nap now. I do hope you have a lovely rest of the day and if you’re rude to the luncheon wait staff, I’ll haunt the shit out of you. 

The above was read at the funeral of Mr. Matthew J. Fromm to raucous applause and laughter from the wall-to-wall crowd. A world renowned author, his fantasy series explored themes from loyalty and betrayal to exploitation and revenge, and brought renewed interest to the Arthurian quest. He spent his twilight years sponsoring obscure archaeological digs, lecturing at his beloved alma mater on subjects ranging from the inherent strategic weaknesses of Fascism in the context of the Second World War to the influence of the Bayeux Tapestry on the Western narrative structures. He is succeeded by his wife, two children, seven grandchildren, and (as specifically highlighted in his last will and testament that they should be entitled to the best of his sweaters) sixteen well cared for dogs. It was said in the luncheon afterwards (a particularly well-behaved one as remarked by the wait staff) that all ended exactly as he wanted. He will be missed (especially, and perhaps most of all, by his dogs).   

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