When I die I won't ask why. At the age I'll be, obviously, mortality will have its fill of me. But I wonder when I'm six feet under will I still hear thunder, will rain seep down and dampen me in my sleep? Will I hear footsteps above my head or hear words falsely said for the brand new dead?
I'll miss the bliss of sleep, knowing I'll awake to watch the sunlight creep into my sky, that I'll still be there to smile good-bye to a sunset rainbow hue that will return anew as a sunrise after all my days are through.
I'll miss tuning in on the morning news, any network that I choose, to tell me if my stocks are up or down and how much did I win or lose.
I'll I miss my favorite nurse who likes to listen to my verse. Will I start that awful cough on her day off when she's not here to comfort me? Will I die before I've said good-bye? Will she cry or just sigh and go her way?
I'll miss my friends and family and hope they miss me now and then. I'll miss my kids and grandkids who I'll never see again. Will I soon be with my wife who waits for me in a place I hope is heavenly?
What will become of my writings when I am dead? Unpublished, most not ever unread. What my novels begun, left undone? My Page One by-lines in the press, highly praised but brought no big success. I did my best. Had my share of scoops, it's true. But what good did all that do? A moment's fame flickers like a dying flame.
Words hold power for just an hour or a day, then fade away. It's a shame. But that's the newspaper game. All this said, now that I am dead, let this be my obituary. Now have a laugh as you read my epitaph:
When I die do not cry. Just turn and walk away.
I want to be alone so I can quietly decay.
ED (WEGADS) WEILAND - 1923 - 2012