Death Song

  When I die.
  Morbid.
  But face it. Bound to happen.
  So. When I die.
  I want to be buried in the clothes of my youth. Because in my head, I will never be old. Like Peter Pan I will look in the mirror and still be a child. I will embrace my immaturity, my vivaciousness, my youth and longing for life. I will not let age take over my soul. Though it may overtake my face.
  For I want my face to be wrinkled and old. But still beautiful. Graceful. I will accept and embrace all of the experiences that have added age to my countenance. Each laugh line a story. Each wrinkle a tale. My face a novel, filled with chapters. My face a book of my life; a mask in the play on the stage that all men appear upon.
  I want to be able to say, with my last breath, that I had no regrets. I lived life to the fullest. I made mistakes, but I learned from them. I let them teach me, not tell me Who I was to become. I made promises. I made love. I cried from heart-break. I laughed from relief. And I enjoyed every minute. Every minute was mine.
  At the end. The very last gasp-for-sweet-air end. I want it to be said that I loved. I loved to my fullest being. And I gave my all, for Christ, for others, for those I couldn't do without, and for those that I could.
  I want my death to be a song. A melody carried over by those who loved me. A chant, a hymn, a drum solo, a lonely flute, a ukulele, a drumming of the fingers. All of the songs symbolizing those who loved me, and those I loved. And the song will raise up in the air, and drift away on the clouds, and the notes will lazily scatter. They will be forgotten. I will be forgotten. But just for that instant, I want to be remembered, and for people to say of me, "She gave everything she had."