Den of Iquity

My fifteen year old grandson Sebi has an undeveloped sense of where the fine line is between dark humor and inappropriate comments. So he is a lot like me. Recently he wanted to know who gets my den when I die and clumsily put in a claim for it. I hardly consider it mine because my wife, youngest son, and the younger grandchildren camp out in it more often than me. They nap in the den, use my supplies, scatter them elsewhere in the house, and leave behind traces of food. The culprits are easy to identify. Tea stains on Estate documents belong to my wife. Drawings of poop are the work of my eight year old granddaughter. Nerf bullets have clearly been fired by Sebi. Chicken bones are my son’s leftovers from snacking with the Colonel. The television is always left on and the channel fingerprints of Sponge Bob, Star Wars, ESPN, and Perry Mason reruns identify individual trespassers. Presumably whoever inherits my den would remodel it because everyone complains that the decor is a gauche shrine to me. The room consumes barely 3% of the square feet of the house, so I am not exactly hogging space. I have little interest in happenings on earth after my death because my expiration represents the end of the world. All history of the universe culminates with my demise. No hypothetical scenarios horrify me. I am guessing that I will not even be in nominal possession of the coveted den when I die. Likely I will be housed in some retirement or assisted living community before I am ready because everyone is so anxious to move into that den.