the other certain thing

I read an article the other day in the New York Times. Style Section. Modern Love series. A recent widow and writer recounted her unfortunate responsibility of deciding what would be on her husband's tombstone. Had I a spouse, I would have perhaps woven my imagination into a quilt with a cross-stitched me and a similar circumstance. I'd be forcibly calm, bereft of my life's love, my dead husband's photo in my hand, staring down a form with fields for "Last Name", "First Name", "Date of Birth", "Date of Death" and "Epitaph". The limitation of letters would be neatly marked by lines designating one space for one letter. Maybe his epitaph could be as long as a tweet.

But since I'm not married, the article started my ball bearing imagination rolling down an endless chute of contemplation. The article's author incited an existential Escher drawing of my life to sketch itself in my mind and made me wonder what would come after. Not in the magical afterlife but in the afterweek, my body chilling in a morgue drawer while my I-don't-even-know-who-would-be-arounds cried, grieved, consoled each other and tried to figure out where to put me.

I'd be dead so I'm not so much worried for my future soul. I worry for my memory. For my legacy. Really, I worry about my eventual epitaph and the lack of eloquence those who might survive me will have.

When asked, my mother, whom I hope for her sake will not outlive me, said "Well, it'll say Katie, beloved daughter, sister..." at which point La Crevette objected with "Why does daughter get to be first?" Oh, it's going to be in bad hands. I will have to either marry a much younger writer or give birth to a healthy one.

I thought perhaps I would write my own epitaph. Literally get the last word. It would be a simple exercise in my writing skills. I'm a marketer. Can I make my life seem compelling and exciting? Can I do myself justice? Since I am also a control freak, can't I just write it now while I'm mentally competent and really witty? The answer I concluded is that I can't. I need to live my life before I can sum it up in a few characters.

So taking this to task, I started to wonder what the subject matter would be, disregarding the semantics for now. Perhaps I can live a life so clearly plentiful with achievements, so obviously grand, that even the most blubbering, illiterate individual who might be around to mourn me can slap together a few correctly spelled demonstrations of my greatness. "Lover", "Fighter", "Hugger", "Eater", "Readed a lot of books", "Poet", "Friend", "Was right",... there will be more. There will be a laundry list of the things I was. I just can't say for certain which things now because nothing is carved in stone.