I’ve planned for my funeral — wish I could be there

I watched the funerals of Sen. John McCain and Aretha Franklin, marveling at how well the pomp and circumstance of each suited them.

I couldn’t help think how much they would have enjoyed it. The music. The crowds. The nice things people said about them.

Maybe we should have our send-offs while we still are alive.

A few years ago, I made a plan for my own funeral. I was attending as many funerals as weddings, and I found myself taking note of what I would like (open mike) and what I wouldn’t (open casket).

I decided to write these things down. I’d like to be cremated, even more now after watching an episode of “Penny Dreadful” during which Dr. Frankenstein brings a woman back to life. My teenage son Sawyer turned to me and said, “I’m going to do that to you.”

Not because he’d miss me. He’s that into science.

Once cremated, I don’t want Sawyer to keep me in a box next to his electrical engineering textbooks. I’d rather my ashes be scattered in a place I love, Mission Beach, Christopher Creek or Target.

At my funeral, I want a good choir, one with spirit, gospel maybe. Amy can pick the rest of the music. (She made great mixed CDs for our road trips.)

People should tell stories about me, ones when I was funny or smart. (Judie, you may not speak of our antics between 1987 and 1989. I mean it. I will haunt you.)

I’ve never had a gathering where there wasn’t food, so cater a lunch afterward. And serve alcohol. These are my people, after all.

Only display photographs in which I am happy. Because that’s what I have been, happy, almost always.

I had stapled my notes to my will. Looking at them again, I think it will be a good time.

It seems a shame I’ll miss it.