How will I live without a body?

Just like grandma.

My Italian grandparents died pretty much one after the other. Grandfather took his leave first. Grandmother expired in short order.

Broken heart, the relatives liked to say. Doesn’t that sound romantic? I’m skeptical. Over more than 50 years of marriage, I’m sure they grew comfortable having each other around. But if you had ever met my grandparents, you’d know that death by heartbreak is pushing it.

My Dutch grandmother, on the other hand, waited until she was good and ready to go — years after her husband shuffled off his mortal coil. She knew when it was her time.

Was she aching to join her husband? After all, they’d been sharing the same bed for 60 odd years. Once, my mother even asked her about it. Grandmother looked up from her book and flatly replied, “I said goodbye to him years before he died.”

She was a no-drama kind of grandma.

The other day, there was another death in the family. This time, on the Italian side.

It was my uncle. Relatively young. Tough as nails. Substance abuse issues. He was the family’s bruising black sheep. He had drifted far from most of us. I hadn’t seen him in a decade, at least. No one bothered with him much. Until he gave up the ghost. Then the wailing and weeping began in earnest. Mostly, on social media.

Poor Uncle So-and-So. He’ll be in a golden casket, saints and lions carved on his tombstone. And when he comes knocking on heaven’s door, he’ll probably wearing the finest tailored suit he never owned. If only the doorman took bribes…

Likewise, my own father, will ascend in a golden glaze, accented with mother of pearl. He’s going to blow heaven’s mind. The thing is, he’s already blown his own. He’s been suffering from dementia for a long time now. He probably completely forgot about the $60,000 he spent on grave architecture back when he had his wits about him.

My Dutch grandmother, who never lost her mind, also planned for her end. A tidy cremation.

“Just call that place,” she told my mother. “What’s it called... ? A,B,C.”

“Can I spread your ashes around the tree in the backyard?” my mom asked.

“No,” grandmother replied. “You’re not doing any of that shit.”

She just wanted to be brown-bagged and done with it.

“Cold Dutch people,” one might say. Believe me, people have said that. But they wouldn’t have a clue about the sheer, blinding size of my mother’s heart. She’s always looking for an excuse to love someone. Anyone at all. Someone must have charged that love battery. And it sure wasn’t my dad. I’m thinking that would be grandma and grandpa. On the Dutch side.

Since I came back from crack, the “cold Dutch” side of my family have been stalwarts in my recovery. Aunts, cousins — people I hardly any relationship with as a kid. And now I love them.

The Italians? Dust in the wind. Maybe a snicker, a couple of what-a-shames — but I suspect, they’re a little disappointed that my funeral’s been cancelled.

I know what you’re thinking. Everyone processes grief differently. But what if there is no grief that needs processing? Only an ego that needs stroking.

When I go, I hope you’ll remember me fondly. Maybe remember a few of my jokes. But please, no funeral. I want to go the way of my Dutch grandmother. You can keep the love. But brown-bag the rest of me.