And "Stairway to Heaven" will be playing in the background.

My dear friend “*Dottie’s” mother died two weeks ago.

I couldn’t have done everything I’ve been doing since my divorce without Dottie's help.  Every morning she sends me a text; “Good morning! It’s a beautiful day. Enjoy!”

Dottie has three children; her daughter and mine have been friends since 7^th grade and my boys used to go to her school. Her children are the sweetest, most polite, loving children you might ever want to meet. And her mom never forgot details about my kids; little things I had mentioned about them; where my daughter is attending college and the names of my boys, what they liked to do, how they were doing; details that showed she listened and cared when you talked with her about your life. My youngest and her shared the same birth date.

Dottie’s mom has had a rough two years.  She broke a hip, recovered from that; had a stroke, recovered from that; broke her wrist, recovered from that and had a major stroke and never recovered from that.  When I went to see her in Hospice, she looked so peaceful.

Her five children and 14 grandchildren came from Ireland, Canada, Wisconsin and VA to the wake, funeral and burial.  I knew some of them personally, and the ones I had just met, it seemed as if we had known each other already because of stories that we had heard about each other from Dottie.

I went to a real Irish-Catholic wake, complete with wine, Guinness and laughter. The funeral was in the Catholic Church.  

I haven’t been inside a church, much less a catholic one, in years.  I remembered my “routine”; all the things I was supposed to say, when to stand, sit down and kneel.   

I wore a blue sweater in her memory.  That was her favorite color.

When I die, I don’t want a wake, I don’t want a mass, I don't want a church service, I don't want a visitation, I don't want a burial.

I want my loved ones to buy the least expensive, simplest box and have me cremated. 

I want to be wearing a purple tee shirt, a pair of jeans and my “Penny loves Kenny” purple high-heel boots.   

I want my ashes scattered at the base of Mount Hood. 

I want my ashes to be carried off by the wind and float off into the Universe, so that in my next lifetime, I’ll remember that I am a child of the universe and maybe my dream of living as a hippie will finally happen.

Please don’t make me wear “mom jeans”, please make sure they’re sexy jeans that are tucked into my boots and don’t forget the eyeliner and mascara. 

At Dottie’s mom’s services, everyone was so sad and everyone wore black. “Thank you for coming”, “Yes, she was a lovely lady”, “Yes, she was happy/feisty/loving...”, and when the catholic service began and her coffin was brought into the church and draped with a blanket, it was claustrophobic. I don’t want any of that, catholic or otherwise. 

I plan to be around to become a feisty old lady; sexy, but feisty.  But when I die, I don’t want anything but to be one with the Universe.

And everyone attending the scattering of my ashes has to wear something purple. Because that's my favorite color.

(*Not her real name, of course...)