Maybe Tomorrow

To dispose of a body could be an inconvenience. Who would discover it? A stranger? The landlord? A few years earlier, my friend had witnessed a person jump from a building; the friend was traumatized for two days.

I can’t leave such a heavy burden on someone.

Perhaps my life, alone, will end in a different city, country—at least spare a loved one in discovering my remains. I’ve never seen a dead body before, other than at a funeral. But I think there’s a slight difference to observe a prepared corpse showcased appropriately for the grief.

I don’t believe I’m good at this, plotting a suicide.

“Simon?” My wife says from the kitchen, followed by a clang of dishes. “Dinner, it’s ready,” she continues. My lack of a reply finds herself standing on the threshold of my office. “Are you still going on your trip tomorrow?”

       “Not sure.” I offer her some kind of answer. Otherwise, she’d press a series of inquires until she’s satisfied.

  “OK—well—make up your mind. I can make your favourite dish tomorrow, beef stew?”

 Reaching for my cane, I follow my wife toward the kitchen. “Maybe tomorrow,” I tell her.

I read somewhere that life isn’t necessary the search for pleasure, rather what’s meaningful for another. Maybe this is where the longevity of fulfilment is realized. So, what would be meaningful in my life? Maybe tomorrow, I’ll explore this concept of meaning, but before the beef stew.