I foresee my own eventual passing in that. I have few friends, none close.
No one would notice I died until I stink either. Happens to truckers sometimes. We die alone, in our little boxes and usually the first to notice is our dispatchers who wonder why we haven't delivered whatever to wherever. Sometimes it takes days to locate us. It's a big country, lots of truck stops and parking spots and a rig is so small in that.
I won't leave behind much. A few dollars in the bank, a few meager possessions, bills. I have a sister I do not talk to, a few elderly relatives I do, a handful of online friends who will likely not ever know of my demise unless they notice and do a determined search. I do not use social media other than the Cellar.
I worry that I will be labeled under the wrong name and gender, despite name changes and a will, which specifies that I be cremated and my remains sent, long with the remains of a friend I keep out of sentimentality, to a mutual friend in Canada, that we all be joined after our respective deaths.
My life won't take up much of an obit. My friend, Rita, who died three years ago, got one sentence, using her male name because her family didn't accept her name and gender change. I hope I get more than that. Maybe a paragraph. Proper grammar please!
But in the end, barring a lottery win, a cleanout service will go through my junk, cherry pick a few things, trash the rest and that will be that.
No fanfare, no funeral, no notice. I'll just be gone one day. I often say that no one is truly dead until they are forgotten. Some, like Ben Franklin, will never be forgotten. Others, like Mr. Bell, are forgotten quickly.
How will YOU be remembered?