Now that the end of Asshat's life was nearing, he was dealing more and more with his own death and the afterlife. I do not mean that on a philosophical level. I mean the actual details of what was to happen after his death. Who was to inherit what? What was to be done with his remains? Where was the memorial to be held?

During these days in the house there was lots of idle talk about these things. Magpie was particularly excited to discuss what she planned to sing at the memorial ceremonies. It was sickening, like watching a vulture circle with ever increasing pleasure eyeing an animal as it weakens, but struggles on. But it was Magpie who shared that Asshat had always wanted to be buried on the grounds of the farm.

The "farm" was actually a palatial, but unfinished house. Asshat had built it himself and while I thought some of the design features were....unfortunate and odd, they were definitely his. It was to have been his magnum opus. Still, his house was unfinished. On the top floor, there was one room that was barely rudimentary, and the basement had a completely non-functional bathroom. Other parts of the house, as I looked at it in the sun, desperately needed maitenance. Eaves were sagging, wood was rotting, paint was chipped an entirely faded. I thought worse than his premature death was that all of his efforts had come to this. The house, as I examined it on this bright summer day, looked absolutely pathetic. He wouldn't even have the time to build the chapel where he wanted to be buried on the property. There wasn't even time for him to fulfill his dying wish.

I sat on the porch and looked out at the horizon. Asshat had bought all the land surrounding the house so he had a completely uninterrupted view from absolutely any vantage point at the house. Man tries to control his environment, his destiny, and he comes to this. Dying in a house with apathetic relatives with even one of his enemies now more of any ally than those who should have loved him, his house unfinished, his death wish not able to realized. While Euripides once wrote, "A bad beginning makes a bad ending," I think Sophocles was more accurate when he wrote "Count no man happy until he is dead." Of course, it's very difficult to count the dead as happy under any circumstances.

Labels: dying, existential crisis, family