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.