One Sunday morning after breakfast, my husband and I were lounging around the living room and he was telling me that if he should die, he would want to be cremated and have his ashes spread on top of several different mountain tops. He’s a geologist, and started telling me why he loves these mountains, and why he wants his ashes there, and so on and so on.
I stared at him, and then blurted, “who is going to put your ashes on top of all these mountains?”
He stared at me over the top of his coffee cup. “Um…you are.”
I snorted. “Honey, I really don’t want to be climbing all those mountains- how many did you mention, like three? Four? You know I don’t like being outside. The sun is no good for my skin.”
“But…” he frowned and trailed off. “Somebody has to do it,” he whispered, scared that his ashes are going to end up in our trash can, next to a used tissue and an empty jar of almond butter.
“I’ll get a boy scout troop to do it,” I said, eagerly. “Maybe they’ll get some sort of badge for it, even.” I thought that was a great idea.
“Fine,” my loving husband said, and then sighed. “Where do you want your ashes spread?”
“The mall,” I answered, with no hesitation. “Put the majority of them around Forever 21, The Gap, Banana Republic, and the Nordstrom shoe department. And then sprinkle just a tiny bit at Cinnabon. I just love those goddamn cinnamon rolls.”
My husband looked horrified. “The mall?! You want your ashes spread at the mall?!?”
I don’t know why he looked so surprised. I love the mall. That’s where I’m happiest. At the mall, I can sip a latte, people watch, try on designer dresses I can’t afford, and use fake accents on salespeople. Being at the mall is like heaven, except with price tags and the occasional screaming baby.
“YES. The mall,” I said firmly. Jeez. Whatever happened to respect for the dead?
Quarter Life Whatever
3 years ago