Why It Matters

While you’re reading this, I’m sitting stiffly in my Sunday clothes, paying my respects to a lost friend. Too soon, too soon.She wasn’t a close friend, but she was a friend nonetheless. I count her brother among my dearest friends. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her since her brother’s wedding several years ago. That’s the last time I saw their parents, too, both of whom are nice people. It’s a little odd to think that the last time I saw them was on a happy occasion, and here we sit today observing their worst possible moment.

My friend was in her forties, but she was still their daughter. Outliving our children is most parents’ nightmare. I don’t know how any of you who have lost a child have survived the blow. You’re stronger than I am.

Anyway, those of us who love music occasionally find ourselves daydreaming about what songs we’d like played at our funerals. It’s a ridiculous conceit given that we won’t be around to hear them. Perhaps we’re trying to exert a little control over the inevitable, or maybe we think it will provide some comfort to those we leave behind to share our final playlists with them. Funeral songs are sort of the ultimate mixtape: one last “I love you,” “I miss you,” “everything’s going to be all right.”

My last playlist is a slippery beast, always morphing, always changing, always pregnant with personal meaning. Here’s today’s version:

“A Small Plot Of Land,” David Bowie.

“I’m So Tired,” The Beatles.

“Thank You,” Led Zeppelin.

“Castles Made Of Sand,” Jimi Hendrix. (You’re getting the Red Hot Chili Peppers here, but on game day make it Jimi, please.)

“Spring Buds,” Michael Hedges.

“Then She Did,” Jane’s Addiction.

“I’m Going Home,” Tim Curry.

“We’ll Meet Again,” Vera Lynn.

There you have it: eight songs to stick me six feet under. What’s on your list? I’m listening.