And I felt it all.
The pain, the sadness, the grief, the halting of breath, and heart without beat.
A warm body turned cold.
Rigormortis setting into the tips of my fingers and toes stiff.
I remember feeling lost.
I remember feeling the void.
I remember thinking, omg, this is crazy.
I think about where they would take me.
Poking and prodding?
Cutting away skin and breaking ribs to get to the heart.
What was the condition of her heart?
Was it full or deflated?
In my death I think about how my name and my identity and humanness would be taken away.
How I would go from Jazzy, to “It” or the “body”.
I wonder what I would look like.
What facial expression would I make.
What would I wear?
Shoes or slippers?
Freshly showered or would there be dirt caked under my nails?
How many battle scars left behind on my shins and elbows.
How my last breath would feel.
A last Inhale, and then a last exhale.
Then I thought about all the phone calls
And the voicemails
And the shocked faces.
And the “oh! poor thing!”
With sympathy cards
Bouquets of flowers
Letters and photos laying at the altar.
The soups and casseroles and envelops of red money drenched in tears.
And then I thought about my funeral.
What I don’t want.
I don’t want a casket or chemicals and embalming shit to fill my body.
I want to be returned to the ground, in ashes or as a tree.
I want to be wrapped in nothing more than burlap sack and flowers from Hawaii.
I want noone to be burdened by my death because that shit is whack
Take the money and backpack through southeast Asian and bring my spirit along
Take the money and buy a boat and sail from SF to Hawaii
Take the money and sign up for a detox and yoga retreat in Bali
Turn me into an engraving on a bench at a beach or a park.
Or name a star a million miles away after me.
And let me know if that star can be seen with the naked eye even on a full moon night.
Make a slideshow from all the FB photos.
Show images of shit eating grins and endless adventures and waterfalls and jungle hikes and motorscootering across Thailand and teaching yoga in prisons and letters to my homies and and all the cuts and bruises and gashes requiring first aid kits.
I want to hear stories.
All the stories.
The embarrassing ones.
The ones that remind everyone of my darkest shadows and flaws.
The ones I can’t remember.
The ones that spoke to legacy and memory and impact and someone who loved so fucking hard that she died doing so.
I want to hear from them.
I want to hear from my family.
And the Collective.
What would they all say?
What stories would emerge?
I hope they’d talk about my work.
The importance of social work in the world.
Of going into homes, prisons, hospitals.
What kind of legacy did Jazzy leave behind?
I want everyone to feel and laugh and cry all at the same time.
Last night I died.
Really, I did.
I was left to ponder all the questions
Who would adopt Mochi in my absence?
Who would fly to Hawaii to clean up my things?
What secrets would they find?
Who would read all my pieces or journals and secret notes scattered throughout notebooks?
Who would be shocked?
Who would be pleased?
Who would be offended?
Who would be disappointed?
Who would take my place in my home?
Who would drive my car?
Or take my paddle board and promise the ongoing pursuit of adventures?
Who would tell them all that I want them to have a big party?
A big giant celebration of LIFE?
And since I never got to have a wedding or a 50th or 90th birthday party
I want this party to be barefooted
On a warm summer night
A fire pit
I want there to be the most yummy food they have ever feasted on.
In a lush garden or on the beach or upcountry overlooking the entire island.
And fuck, how about a bounce house and a waterslide?
I want everyone to wear vibrant colors of the rainbow.
I want there to be cake and ice cream and Mark’s cookies and a table full of candy.
I want there to be sushi
And dim sum, and bowls of ramen, and fresh mochi ice cream from Bubbies.
And everyone to get buzzed on tall glasses of sangria
And trip out on magic mushrooms
And practice yoga imagining my hands on their lower back in childs
Caressing their scalps in savasana
I want someone to roll a fatty to pass around the table
Massages in the shade under a big oak tree
At my funeral I want everyone to feel free to sing and play music on every type of instrument imaginable and hold ceremony like open mic meets a witchy church.
I’d want everyone to paddle out to sea, spread petals of orchids and roses and bless the ocean with life and vibrancy and richness and gratitude.
I want them to speak of generosity and humility.
My yoga classes and my humor.
My mistakes and my failures.
My accomplishments and all the times I reached the finish line and cried.
I want them to speak of grace and love and a big open heart.
I want them to speak of courage and thoughtfulness and the sound of my laugh.
So yeah, last night I died.
And it was painful and beautiful and in my wake it appears as though I left a deep imprint on many hearts and left a legacy behind that won’t be forgotten for many generations to come.