Earlier this week, I wrote about the death of Will Koch, the CEO of Holiday World. The morning after his death, Will's mother Pat, who herself is a prominent fixture at the amusement park, was greeting guests at the guest of the park as she does every other day. Several news articles and Facebook updates encouraged people to have fun in tribute to Will, indicating he wouldn't want people standing around being sad.
I thought this would be a time to let my family and friends know that when it's my time to go, I hope you'll gather in groups and cry. No disrespect to Will Koch, but I'd like there to be a run on Kleenex when I die.
Maybe it's the Leo in me that craves the attention. Maybe it's the approval-seeking first born in me that wants to know that I mattered enough to people that news of my demise would leave them breathless and teary-eyed.
So, yes, please do cry for me Argentina -- and Indiana and Ohio. Commence with the wailing and the "I can't believe its."
Now, don't go carrying on for months on end. I kind of like the idea of a week-long shiva. Seven days of grief and mourning. Certainly, in that time I would hope that some slivers of sunlight and laughter peek through -- stories of silliness and laughter, generosity and caring that I brought to someone's life.
But when I'm gone (and for the record, I don't intend to go anywhere anytime soon), go ahead and have a big ol' cry. I'm not much of a crier myself, but hopefully my family and friends can do for me what I don't do for myself. So please, cry. Sob. Blubber. Boohoo. Weep.
And when you do, I'll be looking down from heaven (I hope!), smiling.