Today, my
daughter and I talked about death. Mine, more exactly. We were in my bedroom,
trying to tidy up the mess a bit and she said:
“Mum,
please, before you die, just get rid of some of your stuff, O.K?”
I told her
no way I am going to throw away my stuff while I am still alive and that she
can get rid of everything after I die and not before. But she was: ”Oh, mum, I
couldn’t…I couldn’t just throw your things away. You know what? I’ll burry you
with them…”
I reminded
her that I didn’t want to be buried, you know, in a grave, in the ground. She
promised me some time ago she’ll arrange for me to be cremated.
So I added:
“You can send me in style. Put me on a raft, on the Sea of Galilee, with my
fake jewelry and my candles and my skincare and set me on fire”.
“Mum, I
cannot do that! It’s illegal”.
And we
laughed and laughed…
“Ok, then
cremation it is.”
“You know that the ashes of a cremated body can be stored for a long time. I’ll keep you at home. In a jar.”
“Listen, no
crazy stuff with my ashes, Ok?” I replied. “No arts and crafts and stuff like
that. Don’t put me in places I wouldn’t like to be. Just take me to Romania.
Scatter my ashes over the lake at Valea Draganului. Or bury me under a tree, in
the forest near the lake.”
“How am I
going to get you there?” she asked, practical, as usual.
“Well…after
I die we’ll have to improvise… just dress me nicely, put me in a wheelchair and
take me on a plane. Tell them, I’m sorry, my mother is sleeping. Problem
solved.”
We laughed until
we were breathless. And then we cried.
She really
gets me, my daughter.
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