Wandering through pages of discarded keystrokes can be treacherous. A virtual forest of unmapped landmines lies ahead. Step here, you live. Step there, you don’t. Each coordinated effort of leg muscles begins with a cringe.
Whenever I charge into words I’ve written and never published, that’s how it feels. Will I implode from embarrassment or find a surprisingly strong script? It’s impossible to know.
Today I found a document written for Ginger. Titled, “When I die,” it was nothing more than a rambling list of post mortal instructions. My wish was that they would help her make decisions when she didn’t feel up to it. Hopefully, they would also discourage Death Induced Character Improvement Syndrome. This is when the people at a funeral, while waiting for the right time to ask the widow if she's ready to sell, describe the recently deceased as a much better person than he actually was.
Below is one bullet point from the document. I still stand behind these words. Someday, for kicks, I’ll publish the others.
“Should I die in an airplane (as I have always felt likely), unless the proof is indisputable, please do not say stupid things like “he died trying to save others.” When your ass is in a sling, you try to survive, and it is difficult for me to believe everyone who perishes in a plane did so dodging some poor soul who was in the way.”