This justified obsession started with a story in a local newspaper about a woman who had an untimely death. Her sad and tragic ending was that she was murdered by her son, and, as it always happens, the neighbors were interviewed – what is their comment on this person who met the most horrible death. They said that she was a very good knitter. That made me pause for quite a while. It brought home that our complex, interesting lives can be so reduced with a few words. Not only that, but how unknown we can be to other people, that the best that people could say about a woman at the end of her life is that she was a good knitter.
I sent this story to a couple of friends and I said, “please please when I die do not say stupid shit like this about me!” But that was not the end of it. The story stayed with me still. One day I was hiking and saw just a single grave beside the hiking trail with a plaque that said, “Loving Wife and Mother.” Much better than a good knitter but these kind, warm words again gave me a shiver. To be reduced, by multiple people that you spent decades serving, to four words. It shames me a little that I cringe to have these words on my tombstone. I’d rather if people told a story of when I got drunk and had to sleep by the toilet because I got so sick. Or when I was dead last on the bike portion of a duathlon because I had just gotten a bike the weekend before.
I guess deep down my insecurity is that I’m not interesting enough and I’d rather be remembered with a small, interesting anecdote rather than the warm words of “Loving Wife and Mother.” I’m so committed to this that I’ve already gotten that rid of a husband so at least half of it will never be said. Since that fateful afternoon 5 years ago when I read the newspaper piece about the stabbed knitter, I’ve been thinking what would be more satisfying to put on my grave. As you can see, I do not trust my children or best friends so much. I’m working on something for myself. The best I’ve come up with so far is: “she was apologetically herself.” I wish it could be that I was unapologetically myself but that is not how I was raised to be. That is not how I grew up to be. That is not how I matured to be. I’ve always been quirky. I’m very apologetic for it. Maybe I rejected the quote “Loving Wife and Mother” because I doubt whether I was enough of that. Am I enough of a good mother. Maybe the best I can hope for is to have have been somewhat interesting. On my walk today I passed by a section of a park where many trees have dedication plaques, many with the same words over and over. I don’t know why I’m thinking about this in my mid-40s, but I do hope that my kids will get a bench or a tree with a little plaque dedicated to me when I pass, so that they could visit me whenever and feel a little closer, rather than going to a cemetery, which has its own baggage. My mother’s grave is all the way on a different continent. I don’t know what her stone says. I think it’s just her name. To be honest I didn’t really know her so I wouldn’t even know what to put there. And I think we’ve solved the second mystery. I worry that my children won’t know me enough to be able to say something meaningful about me. The same way I don’t know how to say something meaningful about my mom.
