My Last Party
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How I wish I could attend my own memorial service! It will be my last party, after all. Since I want to be cremated, my earthly remains will be promptly dispatched in the most ecologically and economically sensible way. No traditional funeral service for me. Instead, a gathering of my friends will mark my passing with a memorial service in our Unitarian church, with a very simple urn, full of my fresh and simple ashes, sitting there to watch the party. The champagne toast that will follow will enable the flow of laughter and tears, and the telling of tales of all sorts to celebrate my life. Too bad I won’t be there to join in the fun.
I have been blessed with a great many friends along this journey that will have just ended. And they all knew and liked my parties. I often fantasize about who would show up to enjoy my last one? And what they would say.
How will they find out that my life journey has come to its end? How many will care enough to travel the distance to participate? Would there be enough of them to fill even half our sanctuary? Or would they have to get additional folding chairs for the late comers?
I pray no one will attend only for the sake of appearances. If they remember me well enough, they’ll know to stay away from that line of thought. Most of all, I wonder, what will they say, those who agree to deliver my eulogies?
They won’t have that much to work with, since I’ll have left little behind but my writings and my photography. I can claim no great accomplishment having made front pages of magazines; no impressive degrees having added multiple initials after my name; no climbing the ladder of a career with a worthwhile corporation; no national volunteer organization that I might have created and built up; no profitable business that I might have founded and/or managed; no contribution to the social or medical betterment of humanity; no life-saving discovery to be named after me; no successful children whose happiness I could take some of the credit for.
And what will they say, during the party afterwards, those people whose hearts will be challenged by the unavoidable thought “One day, it’ll be my turn…” When their tongues are loosened by champagne, what will they talk about? Would any of their words be a surprise to me? Or a disappointment? Would I laugh with them, cry with them? Would I finally hear what I would have loved to hear while I was alive, but didn’t because words were withheld when they could or should have been said? Would I agree with, or resent them? Or feel happy, or shocked, or grateful, or angry, or sad? Or would I learn things I never suspected? How many of the people present really knew me? Will any of them have taken the time to read my writings and look at my photography in my website?
I wish I could attend my last party, to have a chance to find out whether, after the end of the final stage of my life’s cycle on this earth, my steps on it have left any traces or indentations worth remembering.
To those who'll show up because I had a positive impact on their lives, I’d say “Why did you wait till I was dead to tell me? I could have rejoiced in how I was able to help you in some way!”
To those whom I affected negatively, I’d say: “If you’d told me when I was alive that I had hurt you, unwillingly or unknowingly, I could have made amends.”
To those who will appear just because they feel they have to for appearances’ sake, I’d say “Go home and spend your day on something you like or with someone you love.”