Yesterday, while Dad and I watched the news reports of the various Memorial Day services around the country, we heard Taps being played at least once. I turned to Dad and reminded him that I wanted that song played at my funeral.
“You played it at summer camp, right?” I asked him. When he nodded yes, I informed him that he must play it when I kick the bucket.
His old trumpet is sitting in a lonely corner of our attic. I know exactly where it is. Perhaps he should get it out and make sure it still works and that he hasn’t lost his magic trumpet touch.
Dad told me he wouldn’t play his trumpet at my funeral because he did not plan on being there. (How rude!) His reasoning is that because he is older than me (just 2 ½ years), he will already be gone.
As we all know, death does not necessarily choose its victims based upon age, so it is possible he may be available that day. Now it is my hope that the reason he cannot do his own special rendition of Taps at my funeral is because he is just too old—very, very old—and I predeceased him by just a week or too because he simply cannot hang on without me.
My backup plan, as I mentioned in Roll Your Eyes and Snicker, is that Aunt Ar and Aunt El can hum it.