Keats can keep his urn with its leaf-fring’d legend. I’ve got a much better slice-of-life to share. When I called my parents tonight, my father reminded me of an exchange he had with my daughter when she was about four.
My Daughter (to her grandfather): This is my teddy bear.
My Father (to his granddaughter): I like it. Can I keep it?
My Daughter: (No answer.)
My Father: Can I have it when you’re done with it?
My Daughter: You’ll be dead by then.
My Father: (No answer.)
My Daughter (helpfully): When I’m done with it, I’ll put it on your grave.
My Father: (No answer.)
(Later)
My Father (to me): I didn’t tell her I want to be cremated. We’d have to get a little urn for the bear.
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