A headteacher of mine died the other week, and it is strange to think that whilst I was writing about her and trying to reconfigure her as a human being instead of a terrifying ogre, that she was having chemotherapy, in the process of being a normal human being. It is strange that I never thought of her as one because she scared me so much. And strange how death makes one fonder, how an obituary changes everything. How will I be remembered? I should like to write my own, but I would better like to know who will write mine and what they will write.
I wonder if she thought, hooked to a drip, about her own obituary and how they'd wipe out her elitism and replace it with the word drive, and if she worried she was being wiped out too, and if she was a bit relieved to join her husband, and how sad she felt about her life, or how happy. I wonder if she thought of the pupils at her school at all. I wonder wonder.
I need to worry about an essay rather than what death is meaning.
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