[dropcap]M[/dropcap]y wife walked through the door with a bag of groceries in her arms. I was diligent on the sofa, entangled in an exciting baseball game. My greeting to her was a mere flick of the wrist.
“Have you been sitting there all day?” she asked.
“Honey, this ballgame ain’t just going to win itself.”
She sighed, “Have you looked over the life insurance documents, or the living will yet, like I asked?” she spoke in such a way that her voice overpowered the blaring television.
The legal paperwork was still on the dining table, untouched, where it’d been for days. This is probably because I’m hesitant to embrace the idea of death. I don’t like thinking about it, especially before tomatoes are in their peak season.
“You’ve got to look these over, and sign them,” she waved the forms at me. “What would happen if you were in a coma? How would I know what your last wishes were?”
“Well, I don’t care what you do with my junk if I’m dead, and just pull the plug on me if I’m on life support.”
“How could you say such a thing?”
“I’m serious, if I’m a vegetable, dependent on computerized machines and fluids, put a stop to it. You have to promise me that.”
“Fine,” she walked over to the sofa where I was sitting with my feet propped up. She clicked off the ballgame, confiscated my iPhone, and poured my beer down the sink.
“Now get off your dead ass and mow the lawn.”