But Trish had my smart friend Bill, who's well versed in many areas, including, unfortunately, this one, read a delightful poem called Dead is Dead by Alan Balter. It was filled with euphemisms for death like....buying the farm and went belly up.
The last line was: And should you come to my funeral, don't bring a thing. Just sit back and listen to the fat lady sing.
Folks in their 70s and 80s have, by design, limited life spans. This is sad for those who love us but when we come to grips with it, it makes our remaining years rich. Talking about the wonder of it and pondering on what's next, is rewarding and tends to take the fear out.
And, by the way, we oldies know that when the fat lady sings refers to Kate Smith. When she sang God Bless America, the show was over.
Below is one of my favorite poems on our shortsightedness in facing this reality.
Limited
Carl Sandburg
I am riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains of the nation.
Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air go fifteen all-steel coaches holding a thousand people.
(All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men and women laughing in the diners and sleepers shall pass into ashes.) I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he answers:
"Omaha."
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