The deed is done. The deed, in fact, is in my possession. The deed to my grave. I paid it off today. Section X, Row Y, Plot Z. My agent advised me to keep the exact location secret for fear that my millions of adoring fans from around the world will flock to the cemetery and take a chunk of sod or some souvenir to remember me by. [Guffaws from the peanut gallery.]
Likewise, and more so, my agent also advised me not to have a headstone, for that would be a prize memento for grief-stricken fans — if not to carry off the entire stone, then pieces of it. [Another round of guffaws.]
So there I will be through eternity, an unknown person in an unmarked grave in a secret location. Just a wooden cross to mark the spot, not to honor Jesus Christ, not, in fact, as any kind of religious symbol, but because I want something there, and I like the simple stark design of the cross.
My wife’s ashes, contained in a beautiful bronze urn, will be with me in the earth. We will be together again, sadly not sharing memories and feelings and sensations and life’s experiences, for all that will be lost in the void of oblivion.
Yet, I’m looking forward to it. It’s a great comfort to own that piece of land. Better than the living hell of loneliness.
