Our Self-Written Obituaries – Lisa, Ojai
The 270th death.
Today, I died: January 30,2022.
I died today, leaving behind my 99-year-old father, two sisters, and Trenton. Trenton, the terrier, is wondering why I am no longer walking, laughing and kissing with him. My father is wondering too. I just disappeared, as far as they know.
Over the past several years, due to the ubiquity and lethality of the coronavirus, I had spent my days photographing the surrounds of my home rather than going far afield. I had become increasingly impressed with the local landscape’s similarity to what I imagine was present when dinosaurs inhabited this earth. I had also cooked more imaginatively, discovering how to mix together unexpectedly compatible ingredients, such as fennel, green beans and anchovies. My company became the birds visiting the birdbaths I refreshed daily out back. When the pain of loneliness threatened me, I visited Dad and Trenton.
I had imagined a different life: Living in Oaxaca, Mexico, with the sound of the weavers’ shuttles flying back and forth, attending the Mercado Benito Juarez, and spotting the Quetzal in the surrounding Sierra Madre de Oaxaca; visiting my glorious friend Suzanne in Maine, laughing up a storm, swimming in the lake, plundering the cabinets for ingredients.
Our Self-Written Obituaries invites people to write their obituary in 200 words. The idea is to share with the world how you will like to be remembered after you are gone. (May you live a long life, of course!) Please mail me your self-obit, with a photo of you or your world, at firstname.lastname@example.org.