In case I die

A year ago, four men wearing balaclavas and backpacks stopped a commuter train half an hour after it left Atocha. I was on that train. We thought it was a terrorist attack, that we were going to die. Those of us who weren't paying attention to our phones realized the situation and ran to the farthest car. When we reached the last one, we began to manually open the doors. I vividly remember the corner formed by the back of a seat and thinking: if we don't make it out, I'll curl up in a ball there until we explode or they come to shoot me. I had my mother's number ready to call her. The other mothers were already being notified. I waited until the last moment. I didn't need much time to say just two words. But, in the end, no one died. The terrorists turned out to be simple graffiti artists.

That night I had trouble sleeping. I amused myself by wondering what my family would have done with my body if I had died. I assumed they would have buried me in my literary Jándula. And the truth is, they would have chosen the right place. I think I would only bury myself in another city if I fell in love. So, for now, Jándula will be my eternal kingdom. However, there is one thing I would like them to do with my body once I lose my soul: that they not touch it for three days before burying it. I read it in a book I can't remember, but it seemed important to me. And that they not use a coffin! Let my body touch the ground, although I don't think the health authorities would allow it; the health of the living takes precedence over the honor of the dead.

That night I amused myself by thinking about what my family would have done with my body if I had died.

I suppose my parents, if they were to die young, would want the ceremony to be Catholic. I don't mind, as I'll attend with my senses muted. But I would like them to play a song when they bring the coffin into the church: "Dancing Queen ." It's a song whose beginning always makes me smile; a mix of celebration and nostalgia, a dance for what was once. It would bring a smile to the faces of the participants, which is the only meaning I find in life: to make the bitterness of existence less bitter for others. Another option is to lay me on a raft in a lagoon, place dying rabbits around my body, and set us on fire. My corpse would illuminate the waters with the colors of the will-o'-the-wisps the little animals would give off.

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I also consider suicide, but only if I reach a certain age. In one of my favorite movies, Harold and Maude , the protagonist wants to die on her 80th birthday. I think it's beautiful to decide when to go. I also think of The Barbarian Invasions and Gina Montaner's beautiful book, Wish Me a Safe Trip , and I'm moved by the affection of friends and family toward the dying.

As for my inheritance, I want it divided like this: for my sister, the harp; for my parents, the sonnet Joaquín Sabina wrote for me; for Charles, the accordion; for Leticia, the first manuscripts; for Carlos, the porcelain dog; and for the rest of my friends, the only thing worth living for: books.