Tonight at my monthly wine group, our hostess distributed conversation cards.
My question: what would you want written on your grave stone?
In the moment I had no answer. Instead I told a story.
When one of my girlfriends succumbed to cancer on Christmas Eve 2006, I was home in Illinois for the holidays and able to attend her wake in Chicago before returning to California. The line to pay respects was long. Friends stood together for hours. It was then I realized I had to stop moving. In my adult life I’ve lived in Chicago, Atlanta, Chicago, California, Maui, Oregon, California… you get the picture. It was a sobering reckoning. If I died, being a Gypsy no one would come to my funeral. The thought set in motion my husband’s and my eventual move back to Ames, Iowa. One has to have a community for friends to attend your funeral.
Driving home, my epitaph came to me.
