“It looks like something your ashes might be put in.” Carol was considering her placement of the very lovely wine box, woodburned with my full name and new brand logo, a gift from my relaunched blog’s website designer. Carol was viewing the whole picture: the coffinlike wine box she had placed above the orange glowing heating element in our new imaginary fireplace/TV console (with “flames” provided by a flickering light across fake logs). I had to admit the whole mis en scene did have the look of a crematorium about it.

   Which got me thinking about death, my own in particular. Ever since I’d become a widower, I’ve found myself no longer afraid of my own death. I knew that Carolyn had merely passed on to another state of being. Just knew it, not based on any religion or faith. There is something beyond the grave, for sure. Our bodies must die, but our consciousness lives on. I’ve had my visitation dream, where Carolyn affirmed to me she “no longer knew what sadness felt like.” I’m convinced she’s somewhere, and very contentedly so. Aside from making the people who love me sad (fortunately, there’s precious few of those, and they’ll be surprised how quickly their grief will turn to relief) I’ll not say I’m now looking forward to my demise, but I’m certainly more sanguine about it.

Aside from making the people who love me sad (fortunately, there’s precious few of those, and they’ll be surprised how quickly their grief will turn to relief) I’ll not say I’m now looking forward to my demise, but I’m certainly more sanguine about it.

   There remains the irrational fear of being declared dead before I actually am. There’s just enough reports of the presumed dead popping up from their slabs in morgues and asking for something warm to drink that I’m leary of being prematurely pronounced (especially should the doctor be a Trumpster and knows who I am). I’m not afraid of premature burial, having taken care of that irrational phobia in my will. But I am terrified of fire, and if my supposedly dead feet start sending me signals of searing pain, I plan to scream my head off in the crematorium to stop the damn conveyor and for chrissakes turn off the oven.

   Dying, on the other hand, still scares me in the regular, human being way. The irremedial pain, the slow wasting away of function and totally debilitating illnesses like strokes and Alzheimer’s remain too terrible to consider. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t obsess about it, and I do find myself developing coping mechanisms should I eventually find I’m in one of these life-delpeting situations.

   Overall, I still want to live long enough to see the Saints win another Super Bowl, and that means I’m hoping to live a long, long time yet. But I do think we might wind up moving the wine box away from the fake fireplace, just to keep from reminding me of my impending mortality every time I turn on the TV.

   This fake fireplace has proven to be an enjoyable addition to our living room ambience, though. You can change the color and intensity of the fake flame with a remote control from the comfort of the couch, and the heating element keeps us toasty without having to heat the whole home. It’s not quite the same sense of romance of real fire, but I don’t have the fear of my feet burning up  in pain-searing flames either.