No other banal event floods my system with stress as quickly as a text that reads: “You available for a call?” Is Death calling or merely my mother, wondering what that chocolate mousse thing I made for a family gathering once eight years ago was? I’d consider the news of my own death to be quite serious, but honestly, I think I’d still prefer to receive it via text — perhaps as a single-frame New Yorker comic to sum up my passage through the veil, or even as a simple coffin emoji sent by the Grim Reaper’s bony finger, presumably adorned in tech-finger gloves. (Does bone work on a touchscreen?)
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