“What should we do with your body?” asked my husband recently. “You know, when you die.” It’s not the first time he’s asked. His wish, for his post-mortem self, is to be cremated and for me and the children to drive his ashes to Hilton Head Island and scatter them ceremoniously into the ocean. I have told him that I am not looking forward to that 12-hour drive for many reasons, not the least of which is that I will be doing all the driving. All of this is assuming that he goes first. But assuming that he does not, what is to be done with me?

“No autopsy,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows.

“Would there normally be?” he asked.

“Well, with murder or suspicious circumstances, I suppose.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

I’m serious about my request, though. On any given day, should someone take a look inside this aging beauty queen (another story for another time), who knows what tale could unfold in the small town news? Among the findings inside this temple would surely be at least two different migraine meds, not to mention the daily Ibuprofen topper. Oatmeal for breakfast, the doctors would note, and nod approvingly, and then in dismay, find the York Peppermint Patty chaser, the diet Coke, the Happy Meal leftovers, the Lean Cuisine, and the half-cupcake eaten after the gym. Dependent on the day, there might be a couple of Midol, some caffeine mints, and a sugar-free Red Bull (honestly, what's the point?) tossed back on the way to church choir. And really, who among us has not had cookies for dinner and Lucky Charms for dessert? It would all be laid out on the table, so to speak, and I would become the Anna Nicole of my village. I can picture the scrolling words under Larry King on CNN:  "Cause of Death: Possible Interaction Between Crystal Light and Dark Chocolate.

So there will be no autopsy. The killer goes free.

“I know,” I say, “I will leap desperately into the ocean after your ashes, consumed by heartbreak.”

“That will be super for the kids,” Adam counters, “plus, you’ve never been much of a leaper.”

I didn't really see the need for the insult, seeing as I was consumed by heartbreak and all, but I tried to be agreeable.

“Same as you, then, I guess. Same thing, same place, same kids.”

“Are you sure?  You don't sound sure.”

“I want to be near you.”

“Well, unless we die together one of us will be long swept away.”

“Symbolically near you,” I grit my teeth. “You know, for the kids.”

“Okay. Good.” He goes back to his book.

Okay.  Good.  And it was decided?  That simply cannot be the decision.  He is obviously not remembering a conversation we had about this when we were first married (yes, we've been talking about this for 16 years.)  He told me that he while he himself hoped for cremation, he pictured me buried under a shady tree, where he could lie down, peacefully, and talk to me.  How do I let that go?

I know that we are not our bodies, that they are just on loan to us while we roam this Earth.  But still, I wonder about those we leave behind and what they might need.  I think I will be just fine remembering Adam at the ocean.  Where will he need to remember me?  It's a decision that will require looking deep into honest needs and true beliefs, and then having the courage to look ahead with faith.

And speaking of our bodies, I intend to pray tonight for motivation and self-direction, so that I can treat mine a little more like a temple.  I think this body deserves at least that much.