What will they say of me when I die?

What will they say of me when I die? Will anyone remember scar that runs across my nose? Will anyone comment and then laugh at the story behind it? Will someone say, “There goes A.R.R, the jumper of beds, the laugher of tickles, the lover of gerberas which aren’t sunflowers although she’d often confuse the two.” Will there be a bitter sweet eulogy? Will there be someone whose secret desire for me causes their body to jerk and tears to run and personal sounds to be so loud that others will look and wonder about the secret meanings behind it all. Or will the only people who are genuinely grief stricken
be my parents? Will they cry because their love was so deep that grew into something tangible, something attached to their heart like a small tumor but more healthy, more alive. Or will they cry because they never got the apology they so much desired, felt they deserved? Will they cry because they never got a chance to forgive, to say re-assuring things, to be the parents who were betrayed but so easily loved, to be the parents they’ve always wanted to be? Will I have a lover by then? Someone who’ll remember the secrets I whispered under the covers, who’ll remember the form my body took as bursts or electricity flew through it. Or will those secrets be lost to the covers of lonely nights? Of heart-aching loneliness whose only remedy was self appreciation? Will I have children by then? Perhaps a daughter who would be scared, the way children are, of routine changing, of the world turning upside down. “Is mommy coming back?” “But then.....who’s going to read me my bed time stories? She did the voices.” Will she have my smile? The same dark eyes with mysteries hiding behind them? Or will she only be the inheritor of my odd actions, a child conceived with a turkey baster and forbidden love? Or perhaps her fate lay elsewhere, a flower plucked from its dying roots, watered and cared for by two idealistic hippies who felt that they were one step closer to saving the world. Will someone standing in the crowd remember me as the person who held their hand and guided them of the ledge? Or will they be there to see my face one last time, to make sure that it’s done, to smile at the dead body of the bitch that deserved it. Will I have any thoughts before my soul rises towards the light, not ready for judgment but having to face it nonetheless? Let’s get this over with, eternal damnation or eternal paradise? Will I be so upfront in death? Something I never managed to achieve with blood running through my veins. Will my life flash before my eyes? A child hiding behind her bedroom door too scared to see where all the shouting is coming from, where the sounds of pots and pans hitting a wall are coming from. A close to overweight adolescent whose baggy clothes cover the curves that lie underneath and the two chest bumps that brought too much attention. A close to obese teenager whose oily skin and untidy hair highlighted the fragile flesh underneath, a cry for help, for love. Finally, an adult who finally found those things she so desperately desired, the love, the sadness, the infinite joy before life cruelly betrayed her and made a deal with death. I’ll trade you this one.