Winter Graveyard

The day I received my critical condition notice, I decided to sign the body donation consent form. I called my Uncle Alan, whom I hadn't spoken to in five years. I called three times. Just as I was about to hang up for the last time and give up—he answered. I steadied my voice, speaking cautiously: "It's just a signature. It won't take much of your time." All he said was, "Don't bother me," and hung up. I stood at the hospital entrance, tears still refusing to fall. I went to his city, to his company, looking for him. I caught him just as he was heading into a meeting. He didn't look at any documents, just signed carelessly. "Notify me when you're actually dead and it's time for the funeral." I clutched the papers and smiled: "Okay."