I was standing there at Arthur’s burial on Tuesday at exactly 11:14 in the morning and it was one of those gray, damp days in Ohio where the air just feels like a wet wool blanket and I realized I didn’t even really know the guy, you know? He was my mother’s second cousin or something and he worked at the same firm as me for twelve years but we only ever talked about quarterly projections and the coffee machine being broken in the break room on the fourth floor and now he’s just... in a box. And I’m standing there in my old charcoal Brooks Brothers suit that’s a little tight around the middle because retirement hasn't been great for my waistline and I’m looking at the grass and I just felt this weird, heavy sort of CALM come over me and it wasn't sad at all, it was like finally finishing a project that’s been on your desk for three decades and finally hitting "send" on that last email. There were fourteen people there, I counted them twice while the priest was droning on about something from the New Testament and the wind was kicking up the smell of diesel from the backhoe parked about fifty yards away behind a row of cedar trees and I started looking at the empty patch of dirt right next to Arthur’s plot. It was just a square of rye grass, maybe three feet by six, and I started seeing it, like really seeing it, and I imagined a slab of dark gray granite—Vermont marble is too soft, you want the hard stuff that lasts—and I saw my own name carved there in that Roman font they use, you know? It said 1956 to whenever I finally kick it and for a second it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life and I know that sounds crazy or morbid or whatever but I don’t CARE, honestly, because I’m tired of pretending that I’m still "climbing" something. I spent forty-two years climbing a ladder that didn't even lead to a roof, just more ladder, and I had these performance reviews every six months where some guy ten years younger than me would tell me I needed to be more proactive with my deliverables and I’d sit there nodding and thinking about my pension and now I’m retired and I have all this time and all I do is think about how quiet that dirt is gonna be. And I looked at that empty space and thought about how there won't be any emails there, and no one is going to ask me for a status update at 4:55 on a Friday afternoon when I’m trying to catch the 5:12 train home and it felt like a REWARD, you know? Like I’ve earned the right to just be a name on a stone and nothing else and I’m not even scared of it, I’m actually kind of jealous of Arthur because he’s done with the whole circus and he doesn't have to worry about his cholesterol or the property taxes on a house that’s too big for one person anyway. My daughter was standing next to me and she kept dabbing her eyes with this little lace handkerchief she probably bought at some boutique for thirty dollars and she whispered that it was such a tragedy and I almost laughed right there in front of the casket, but I didn't because that would be inappropriate or whatever. But it wasn't a tragedy, it was just a finish line and I looked back at my imaginary stone and I could see the dates so clearly, like 1956—2031 or maybe 2035 if I’m unlucky, and I started thinking about the font size and whether I’d want a middle initial because I’ve always hated my middle name, it’s Eugene, and who wants that on a rock for a hundred years? And I’m staring so hard at this patch of grass that I didn't even notice the service was over until people started moving toward their cars and my knees were aching from standing on the uneven ground for forty-six minutes straight. I got home and sat in my leather chair—the one with the worn spot on the left armrest where I always put my drink—and I just kept seeing that plot of land and thinking about how heavy that stone would be, like several hundred pounds of solid rock just holding me down so I can't move and I don't have to go anywhere or do anything ever again. And people talk about the afterlife and golden streets and all that nonsense but I just want the rock and the quiet and the grass and I’m tired of being a senior consultant or a grandfather who has to remember everyone’s birthdays and buy the right kind of organic milk. I just want to be the guy under the granite and I think I might go back to that cemetery tomorrow just to walk around and look at the empty spots again and see if I can find a better view, maybe near that big oak tree by the fence line where the shade is thick and the lawnmower guy doesn't visit as often. And I know my friends would think I’m losing it if I told them this over a round of golf, they’d tell me I need a hobby or I should go on a cruise to the Mediterranean or something but I don’t want a cruise, I want that specific feeling of being FINISHED. It’s 2:14 AM right now and I’m typing this on my phone and the screen is too bright and my thumb hurts from scrolling but I can’t stop thinking about how permanent that stone looked in my head and how much more real it felt than my actual life right now. It felt more real than the 14,000 emails I have archived in my Outlook or the stupid mahogany desk I bought when I got the VP title back in '98 and I just... I’m ready for the weight of it, you know? I’m ready to stop being "on" and just be part of the landscape and if that makes me a freak then fine, fight me, but at least I’m being honest about what happens at the end of the day when the office lights go out for good and the janitor locks the door. I even started thinking about the inscription, nothing poetic, just the facts, because what else is there to say after you’ve spent half a century talking in circles at boardroom tables? I want the stone to be rough on the sides but smooth on the face, like those high-end paperweights they used to give us for hitting our five-year milestones, but bigger, obviously. And I’m sitting here wondering if they’d let me pick the exact spot now, like if I could just go down to the office with a check and say "give me the one next to the guy who liked Xerox," but that’s probably not how it works, but maybe it should be. It’s funny how much more I care about that six-foot patch of dirt than I ever cared about my 401k or the corner office with the view of the parking lot, but I guess when you get to my age you realize the view doesn't matter much when you're the one being looked at, or not looked at, which is even better... anyway, it's late and my phone is at 4 percent.