When I’m in the passenger’s seat of the car as Kid A learns to signal, to accelerate, to look left right left, I look out the window at the markers in the old cemetery that hosts our driving lessons. I admire the large stones, square and upright granite, overlooking a river from the bluff or able to take in the alpenglow of the mountains. This is the place, the place I’d like to be buried, I think.
I don’t bring this up at that moment, because she’s learning to drive, after all, and I’m in no rush.
But then I worry: what if there’s no room?
My mind drifts to some other places. Maybe ashes scattered from a pass dividing two grand basins. Or maybe that spacious lawn on the other side of the river. Or maybe a small monument next to the dog’s in the backyard. But, property values what they are, I don’t want to complicate things for the heirs.
So, wherever will be fine. I suspect I really won’t mind; I really won’t have the capacity to protest; I won’t be back to haunt you. I’d like to think I’ll be there one way or another, as you remember instructions for looking left, right, then left again, in the cemetery or elsewhere.