The trouble with cremation

The trouble with cremation is there’s no opportunity to leave a pithy bon mot for posterity on a slab of granite. Instead, you leave an urn of your ashes for your heirs to do with what they will. I expect, with a high level of confidence, that my dear son will follow the lead of Keith Richards, and snort me when I’m gone. In spite of my commitment to cremation, I nevertheless like to fantasize about what I’d like to have engraved in that slab of granite. After decades of ponderation, I’ve settled on; OFER FUX SAXES. It’s hard to improve on that. It’s not only Keith that’s my guiding light; it’s my dear Opa who I met twice in my life. No idea if he opted for cremation, but family lore has it he dropped dead in the elevator of his seniors’ home, with a cigarette in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other, while on his way to meet a date in the lobby. He was 92 years old. I wanna be like you, Opa!