A bookworm’s dream. Bound for eternity with book in hand.
Or perhaps a book in hand and an adoring dog at your feet.
Doggie heaven. A fresh fowl ever ready everyday.
Alas, the curse of a king. Forced to keep sword in hand and faithful hound ever vigilant until kingdom come.
Or eternally wait for an answer from God.
Or the poor saint who is given no rest. Her work on earth still in demand. Saint Justina, chastised for chastity and Catholicism. A recipe destined for martyrdom. Beheaded in the year 304, the rest of you unearthed and removed by papal politics some 1,500 years later for veneration by the faithful in Lisboa, far away from your Basilica in your native Padua and leaving the residents of Padua without the protection offered by the potent physical presence of their patroness.
I have no worries of being publicly preserved for prayers from the faithful. Sainthood passed me by at an early age.
But, if it’s at all possible to be buried with book in hand, please make it a well-loaded Kindle.
And, maybe, just let Howie rest in peace wherever he lies.