"Beatles or Stones?" I ask.
Making a face, the 105 year old lady gives me a look of confusion, followed by an intense death stare by one who is dying.
"Elvis?"
Sitting up in bed and grabbing my hand she snarls, "I hate Elvis."
"Sinatra?" I whimper ... giving up.
"Why don't you get a truck and draw a crowd?" she sighs.
"Seriously?" I laugh ... it's an old saying ... if you want to draw attention to yourself ... get a truck ... stand in the back ... preach ... and draw a crowd.
If you're good.
"Why don't you pick a song?" I suggest holding her hand in the Hospital bed in her living room.
Struggling ... making faces under askew white hair ... she confesses, "I can't remember any."
"I'll fly away," I offer.
Her face lights like a blazing star and a hundred years evaporates leaving a glimpse of who she was.
"You like that one?"
Nodding, she says, "I don't want no sad, dumpy songs."
"It's your funeral," I reply squeezing her hand.
"My family don't like to talk about it," she whispers.
"They don't have to come."
She giggles.
"Listen," I say standing up but leaning over speaking softly in her ear, "I can't pick all the songs. It's your funeral ... not mine. Next time I see you ... give me your song."
"I'll try," she replies sipping water from a large straw.
"Alright," I say kissing her forehead. "Don't die before you give me your song."
"I won't," she laughs.
"Holding you to it."
Shaking her head, she smiles ... struggling to remember a song.
