Perpetuity Was on Sale

Every family has a story that sounds completely inappropriate until you hear the full context. This is mine.

Many years ago, I gave my parents a columbarium vault for their 50th wedding anniversary. Pause for a moment and let that sink in.

While other people were presenting gold watches, crystal vases, commemorative photo albums, or perhaps a romantic weekend getaway, I arrived with paperwork for a family burial vault. Even writing that sentence today sounds vaguely alarming.

I write this with love and respect for my parents who would have laughed at every word that follows. In my defence, there was absolutely no malice involved. Quite the opposite. My parents belonged to a generation that understood something modern society prefers not to discuss: death arrives whether we acknowledge it or not. Planning ahead was not considered morbid. It was considered responsible. So when I presented them with the documents, expecting a raised eyebrow or two, a stern scolding, and two mortally offended parents, they did something entirely unexpected. They laughed.

They thanked me, expressed genuine relief, and immediately began discussing the arrangements. The conversation that followed was remarkably similar to one that might accompany the purchase of a holiday apartment. Was the location convenient? Was there sufficient space? What were the long-term arrangements? Could family members be accommodated together? The answers, for anyone interested, were yes, yes, yes, and yes. The vault could accommodate four urns, making it a perfectly respectable family residence by afterlife standards. A week later, my father became the first occupant.

Life occasionally produces moments so astonishing that they still feel unreal when written down. One week earlier, we had been celebrating a golden wedding anniversary. One week later, the anniversary gift had become immediately relevant. It remains the fastest transition from future planning to practical application that I have ever witnessed.

My mother joined him a month later, and they now occupy two of the four available spaces. Which means, from a purely mathematical perspective, there are still vacancies.

This is where my practical side and my absurd sense of humour begin having conversations with each other. Technically speaking, there is enough room for two additional urns and my parents are occupying only half the property. So if one were completely devoid of common sense, one might begin viewing the remaining spaces as a form of eternal short-term accommodation: the Airbnb of the afterlife, ideal for those who failed to secure their own arrangements in time. Quiet neighbours, excellent location, long-term occupancy available, and no complaints received from current residents.

Things became even stranger after the purchase. Every year, without fail, I receive promotional material. Most people receive special offers for holidays, insurance policies, kitchen appliances, or mobile phone plans. I receive seasonal reminders regarding memorial upgrades.

The latest offering was a memory wall. I confess that I stared at the brochure for several minutes trying to process the concept. Apparently, eternity now comes with optional extras.

As All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day approach, the reminders begin arriving with remarkable punctuality. Book memorial masses. Reserve commemorative services. Order flowers in advance. Arrange special tributes. Not to be outdone, the columbarium florist sends reminders of its own. It is difficult not to admire the efficiency. The living may forget birthdays, anniversaries, and dental appointments, but nobody is taking chances with November.

The seasonal promotions are only part of the experience. There are also sales. This may sound as though I have wandered into fiction, but I assure you that I have not. Over the years I have encountered special discounts, promotional rates, and the occasional buy-one-take-one offer.

Location, it turns out, remains important even after death. Vaults located on the lowest rows are often discounted. Vaults on the highest rows may also be offered at reduced rates. The middle rows, being the most convenient for visitors, remain prime property. Apparently, the real estate principle of “location, location, location” survives the transition to eternity.

There are also options for proximity. Should you wish to spend eternity beside a spouse, sibling, parent, close friend, or lifelong companion, arrangements can often be made if space permits. I have no doubt there are golf buddies, bridge partners, poker companions, and the occasional neighbourhood gossip who have successfully extended their social calendars well beyond retirement.

Customer service does not end there. One of the more surprising discoveries I made was learning that families may, under certain circumstances and with the appropriate permissions, take an urn home overnight. A loved one may be invited to attend a death anniversary, a significant family gathering, or another meaningful occasion before being respectfully returned the following day.

The first time I learned this, I paused for a moment. Not because I found it strange, but because I found it oddly touching. There is something profoundly human about the idea. We spend our lives bringing family members home for birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, and celebrations. Why should remembrance be any different?

The practical side of my brain, however, could not help imagining the paperwork: temporary leave request, expected return date, resident returning Monday morning, please ensure all items are accounted for before departure.

This is not a criticism. Businesses must operate. Cemeteries require maintenance. Families appreciate ways to honour their loved ones. Yet there remains something wonderfully surreal about receiving what amounts to a seasonal marketing campaign for remembrance. The underlying message is always delivered with dignity and respect, though part of my brain inevitably translates it into: “All Souls’ Day is approaching. Have you considered upgrading your floral package?”

The purchase itself contained another delightful surprise. At the time, I was offered a discount if I chose perpetual ownership rather than a 99-year lease. Think about that for a moment: perpetuity was on sale. Somewhere, a salesperson sat across a desk and explained the financial advantages of forever. I remember finding that deeply amusing. Forever, as it turns out, had a promotional rate. Limited-time offer. Act now.

I had to blink a few times when I first read those words in the promotional material. Act now? As in die now? Or perhaps die now, pay later?

I appreciate that marketing departments have standard phrases they use for everything from washing machines to mobile phone contracts. There is something wonderfully unsettling about applying the same language to eternal rest. The phrase conjures images of prospective customers rushing through cemetery gates clutching application forms before the promotion expires. I could almost hear the imaginary sales pitch: “Hurry! Secure your place in eternity before prices rise!” Surely there must be a line that even marketing departments hesitate to cross. Apparently, this is not that line.

As October arrives and Halloween decorations begin appearing in shop windows, people will once again enjoy telling ghost stories and sharing spooky tales. Meanwhile, I continue to be entertained by the fact that I own a small piece of afterlife real estate acquired at a discount, partially occupied by my parents, with room for future expansion and regular opportunities for premium upgrades.

It sounds like the plot of a dark comedy. In reality, it is a story about love: a practical gift given to practical parents, a final arrangement that brought comfort rather than fear, and a family conversation that happened before it absolutely had to happen. Perhaps that is the lesson hidden beneath all the humour. Death itself is not the frightening part. The frightening part is pretending it does not exist.

My parents understood that, which is probably why they laughed when they opened their anniversary gift. Looking back, I am grateful they did.