How I Want to Die

It's Christmas morning, 2074. My whole family has gathered to celebrate; Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nervous boyfriends and girlfriends of grandchildren. Everyone is here.

The young ones are shrieking with glee amidst flying tatters of wrapping paper, while the teens try their best to look bored and unimpressed.

The adults generally look shell-shocked and sit sipping coffee while staring into the middle distance. A few of the newer spouses, still seeking approval from the family, are running around with trash bags in a vain attempt control the blizzard of paper waste being generated from vicinity of the tree.

I watch this tableau from the comfort of my chair, feeling wonderfully content. I catch my wife's eye from where she sits on the other side of the room - still so beautiful after 65 years of marriage - and I know that she's feeling the same thing.

Porcella, my eight year old great-granddaughter comes running up to me with a christmas popper in hand.

"Hold this end while I pull it apart, poppy," she demands, with that pre-emptive pout that all little girls have mastered by the age of eight.

I smile indulgently, and grasp one end of the popper in my hand.

Porcella shrieks with glee and yanks her end.

There is a loud pop as I spontaneously explode, sending blood and chunks of myself flying in all directions. My nose makes a small splash as it lands in the cider.

No one is left out. Every single person in the room gets a bit of poppy on them.

The family sits in stunned silence until my wife, calmly wiping ichor from her glasses says, "he always said he was going to go that way."

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