I’m going to graduate.
I’m going to pursue a career and start a family.
I’m going to create cherished memories and make mistakes.
And then one day, I’m going to die.
I’m going to be cremated,
placed in an urn that sits awkwardly in the living room,
too bulky for its place on the mantle.
I will become a nicknack,
passed on to my children and grandchildren.
Then I will be forgotten,
but my remains will be kept in the family.
They tell themselves it’s out of respect,
but it’s really because nobody quite knows how to
classily rid themselves of a distant ancestor’s ashes.
My urn will be knocked over,
shattering into a million tiny pieces.
And someone will quietly vacuum me up,
throw me away,
and pretend it never happened.