Brilliant. Trust my obituary to be left in the hands of a guy who likes to write stories told from the viewpoint of an animal. Spoiler alert: I’m a fucking penguin.
Epitaphs aren’t written for the dead, of course – the number of people who sue from the afterlife remains a zero – so wheel out the harp and sing my praises for the ones left behind, jostling to show how deep goes the me shaped hole in their hearts.
I suppose it’s right they spare loved ones the truth. Mother need never know about the dearly departed’s autozoophilia fetishes. The widow won’t want a word spoken of the one, from so long ago, that he’ll be most nervous about bumping into hell.
They say this isn’t a time to be sad. We should celebrate a life. Share fond memories. Actually, if it’s not too needy to make it all about me at my own funeral, I’d say this is a perfect time to be miserable. To regret every single thing I did wrong and question what exactly I did right. To cry over those years we’d spent with feeling, howl my apologies and damn the eyes of all who dared smite me.
I always suspected I wouldn’t get to wave goodbye. The story doesn’t ends where you hope it might. After the perfect last words, there’s the long, awkward sigh, and a so, anyway…
My song will never be mine to sing. I am, after all, a penguin.
I could always fly, you know. It’s just that no one ever expected me to.
Now you know I tried.
By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff: Neil Young, Buffalo Springfield