Perhaps the Sodom and Gomorrah nature of Vegas was why some of my thoughts and conversations this weekend revolved around life and death.

My friend and I were having breakfast one morning and the topic of death came up. Well, of burial, specifically. My mother has already pre-paid for her burial (grave, interment, casket, I think); she’ll be buried next to her mother. I’m sure the necessary paperwork is somewhere I’ll never find it when the time comes.  My understanding is that it’s better (read: more economical) to plan your/your loved ones burial well in advance. And once she’s buried there, and the house sold, the likelihood of me returning to that area will increasingly diminish as time passes. I’ve no love for Florida, and “paying my respects” is an interesting practice that I can’t seem to wrap my brain around. It’s not like the dead “know” you came to say hello (or cry, or shout, or curse or tell stories, or lay flowers or small stones). I realize the ritual is for the living, part of the mourning process for many. We place markers, also not for the dead but for the living; monuments, tributes, “I was here, once” your sign says to those who care to read it. You were here, once, and this is who you were: someone’s mother, daughter, you were loved, you were important to someone or some many someones enough for them to erect a stone for others to see. You Were Here. You Are Gone, Now.

Flying also brings about anxiety of a premature death, and the events of the past week, of the downing of the Malaysian airliner over the Ukraine, had me white knuckling the armrests every time the planes pitched and wobbled.  Reminds me it’s time to get my affairs in order.