When I die, Sig Other will buy a Rolls Royce with the money left him by my life insurance. We’ve discussed it at length. It will be a convertible. It might be vintage and it might be chocolate brown and shadow gray with tan interior. He will, of course, be sad that I’m gone. He will, of course miss me. Surely, he will be downright inconsolable as he drives his shiny new car. But he will also be able to finally afford it and so will experience his grief in style. That is, of course, before he takes his next wife.
These are the sorts of conversations we have about the future. I will die first and he will get the car of his dreams. It all seems very simple. We don’t talk about what would happen if he should die first. We used to. He used to tell me that it was my responsibility to arrange his funeral – a grand affair at the Hollywood Bowl where the Philharmonic (guest conducted by Zubin Mehta) would play Beethoven’s 9th Symphony as his body burned on a pyre center stage (Sig Other’s body, that is. Not Zubin Mehta’s). But now we just talk about the Rolls Royce.
We’re lucky, Sig Other and I. So far (and I write this knocking superstitiously on all things wooden around me), we have our health. As do most of our friends. But we’re getting older and at some point, time and fate will step in and do what they do. I hope we handle it all rather elegantly. I hope we manage to sail through with little pain and a modicum of dignity. But mostly I hope my sweetheart gets his Rolls Royce much, much later in life…
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