As a child I used to worry a lot. I used to worry specifically about something happening to my mother. At this time in my life I was convinced that my mother was the most beautiful, intelligent, and wonderful woman in the world. I also worried that she was going to forget about me or leave me. I did everything I could to be near her.
One morning I sat on the furry orange couch in our dumpy little trailer. I faced backwards, looking out the window on the gray rainy day. I was busy thinking, “What will I do if my mother dies?” I couldn’t bear to be left alone without her. The logical answer, of course, was that we would have to die together. But what if we didn’t die at the same time? Obviously I would still have to be buried with her. The prospect of this was overwhelming.
My mother came out of her bedroom to find me with my head on my arms sobbing into the couch fuzz. “What’s wrong?” she asked in alarm.
“I don’t want to be buried alive with you!” I blubbered.