Obituary

Three days ago I was diagnosed with lung cancer, an unfortunate set of news that, while not unexpected, is certainly disappointing. Late last night, unable to doze off like I normally would, I decided to jot down my own obituary. After all, obituaries are often gray and dreary and impersonal, and who better to write about my life than me? After all, I was there.

Thomas Eugene Hinde is born on March 7th, 1948 in Illinois to Nathan and Katie Hinde. They name me Tom after an old friend and let me sleep on their mattress until I’m two years old. Dad buys me a football and tells Mom I’ll play quarterback someday. Mom serves pink lemonade and lets me stay up until the late night news is over. I turn six and choose basketball over football. My dad is just happy I like sports.

In third grade I draw a portrait of my family that my Mom hangs on the fridge. They tell me I’m an artist and that I can play with the gods if I want to. I don’t know what they mean but I feel loved.

Middle school is a mad blur of red-faced dances and ratty desks, and I turn thirteen on a Tuesday. Mom and Dad take me out for Mexican and I take my picture with a black sombrero. They buy me a Playstation and tell me they’re proud. I feel old, but safe.

High school comes and there are girls everywhere. Alissa Harris has soft brown hair that flows past her shoulders and I love her more than my parents could ever realize. Alissa’s mother drives us to and from the movies, where we hold hands and eat Sour Patch Kids and kiss like we know what we’re doing. After Alissa there’s Aubrie, then Catherine, then Lauren. But Alissa is the first, and brunettes will always have an edge.

When I’m twenty-two I move into that old brick empire on North Pine. There, Candy and I spend our nights reading Kerouac under bright orange embers and honey green tea. She bakes pumpkin bread and takes long bubble baths. I fall in love with the absurdity of our luck and offer her a silver ring in exchange for more. We soon have two children, Sofia and Norah, and I have never known so much beauty.

When I’m seventy-three I stop breathing – too much wear and tear. From empty beginning to natural end, I dance with my eyes open, hungry.