Losing Your Grip (more fun with short fiction)

“So young to have died.”  That’s what I imagined they’d say at my funeral.  The funeral that would take place when I was in my thirties, maybe forties.  Don’t ask me why I harbor such morbid thoughts. But I have to tell you the truth – I feel like I’ve lived my whole life knowing (I guess I can only say “think I know”) that I will die an early death.  That I will not live to be old and wrinkly and crotchety and complain-y.  That sometime long before an acceptable age, I will pass from this world.  My suspicion is it will be due to disease – slow growing cancer, most likely.  Maybe a sudden embolism.  But definitely something that should not be taking me from my family and friends so soon. 

Beyond that simple line, “So young to have died,”  I don’t have much vision of what else might be said.  I hope my girls don’t dwell too much on the what ifs and should’ofs.  I don’t think my husband will spend too much time on those.  He’ll be pragmatic, as always, taking each detail and challenge as they present themselves. Distracting himself with work. Not having to get used to the large king-sized bed alone since he spent so many years sleeping alone on a couch anyway.  

My parents – they’ll suffer the worst.  You should never have to bury your child.  I can’t even think of what they might go through.  It’s breaking my heart just to be musing about it now.  Kind of selfish of me to be spending anytime at all on these insane idle thoughts. 

What has come over me?!  
One minute I’m cleaning closets and sorting Tupperware, and the next I’m daydreaming about the one funeral I won’t be crying at.

George was right.  I might very well be losing my grip. 

He said those very words to me on Tuesday.  I was washing the last few dishes from the dinner rush. I’d already mopped the floor and hung up the mat over the railing out the back door.  George was going through the day’s receipts and suddenly looked over at me and said “Marley, you might very well be losing your grip.”  I couldn’t figure out at the time what he could possibly be referring to – I hadn’t dropped any wine glasses in months.  But this afternoon, I think I figured it out.  It was my grip on reality and sanity and sensible-ness that was slipping. 

Selling my ’56 Gibson 12 string for $200 was just the latest sign he’d noted. 

I thought I was just cleaning closets.