From an old email to myself

Little by little, we abandon you to
have always wanted to write you, but things come up.
Things come up as they come.
I have scattered
Scribbles on dry materials. Haphazard breaths,
Forming rocky, tumbling paragraphs.
I have, on occasion, fantasized about what will be done to my remains
After I pass. I will be cremated, my ashes spread in the Susquehanna,
The Isar, The Mosel. India. Wyoming. All the beautiful
Places I have experienced. Or, I will be Buried in the mountains, or somewhere on my future estate.
We all have ambitious musings, Over our final earthly act that will serve as a last adventure,
As parting goodbye to those places where the heart felt whole.
But in likelihood, wherever my descendents decide. Possibly a public
Cemetery. Wherever they can afford, with whatever earnings I leave on a writer's salary.
Where will you be standing, Sunglasses? Will you scatter out into the cosmos with me as one and everything?
I know our real separation draws nearer by the second
Most of your friends are gone, and I wonder if you ever
Saw this coming?
The barrier provided by the ocean was not enough