DIY epitaph
One day we all will die. Did anyone remember to tell you that, to tell you that you will expire and let go your skin? I’m sorry to always have to be the one to deliver the hard truths, but the people that love you –really and truly love you– will always tell you the truth.
And oh, I love you, you tender giant of a person.
What would you surrender to be remembered? After what part of yourself would you fashion that memory?
Here is what I know (today, anyway….two weeks from this today could be an entirely different matter): I would like the me of last night, the me that existed around eleven-thirty in the central standard of time, to serve as your memory of me. She had a can of Krylon in one hand, rattling the mixing ball within furiously, a half a fudgsicle in the other, sloppy ponytail bobbing lightly as little white discthings delivered Steppenwolf into her ears. Running-shortsed and tank-topped, she stood with legs approximating two-thirds of an isosceles triangle, right hip jutting slightly, back straight and surveying the piece on the floor.
bite of fudgsicle
shakeshakeshake
purse mouth, squint eyes
dance head up and down near-imperceptably
squat and spray
feel satisfied and …dare I say?… fulfilled
I feel like a god when a piece comes together, like something feral and unkempt and in complete control. That’s how *I* want to be remembered. With bare legs and an imprecise ponytail and a strong sense of self.
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P, 
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((, 
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