There I lay, arms--folded; eyes--closed; heart--beatless.
I tried to draw a breath, but my diaphragm wouldn't heave. I sat up, scanning the room curiously. Moistened eyelashes and awkward glances pervaded the crowded sanctuary.
"Who died?"
"Oh..."
"When did I die?"
I didn't recall dying.
The proclamations of a country preacher sought to prepare each heart in the room for its own eventual expiration. He pronounced good news and glad tidings with the voice of a career smoker.
"Why is this box so comfortable?"
Have you ever really thought about that? Full disclosure--this was my first time in a casket, but I remember always thinking as a child that they looked senselessly comfortable. I assume the corpse cares as much for the comfort of his casket as he does for its ornateness.
"Ah...my favorite hymn!"
The robust two-and-a-half part harmony bounced off of olive green walls and stained glass windows, blending with the broken sobs to form a scattered symphony. I raised my voice to join them, but my untimely demise appeared to have rendered my vocal chords ineffective. Even so, I mouthed the words.
"O praise him, Alleluia..."
I lifted my remains out of the pine box, placing a toe cautiously onto the awaiting floor. Entranced by the mournful volley, I hardly noticed the grinding that reverberated through my frame with each step. I proceeded to the front row where my family sat prominently. Shock had obviously arrested the minds and hearts of half the family. The other half were more forthright with their feelings.
Mourning affects people like that--invariably, yet variably. Well-intentioned folks always tried to tell me how to mourn, but mourning is like liquor--it burns, and it affects everyone differently.
Predictably, my dad occupied the end of the uncomfortable pew. For the life of me, I couldn't tell what he was thinking. Something in his face told me my death disappointed him. My mom stood by the casket, smiling. She looked better than she had in years.
The preacher proceeded to pray, offering a benediction sprinkled with a little hellfire and brimstone.
Soon enough the sanctuary cleared, the majority of the macabre congregation reentering normal life as they exited the hardwood doors.
My family crowded around my casket for one last morbid look. I peered over their shoulders at the shell of my soul.
"That's how they did my hair?!"
As big of a deal as we make about our hair, I don't suppose God cares what it looks like when He takes us home.
Logical, apathetic men guided my family deliberately into an outdated limo for the brief ride up the street to the historic cemetery.
"I guess this is as good a place as any to be laid to rest."
There's something painfully ironic about getting to ride in a limo on the way to a cemetery.
A much smaller crowd gathered at the grave-site than had filled the quaint sanctuary. This was my inner circle--all the people who knew my middle name.
It is on Facebook, so I guess hundreds of people actually know my middle name, but you get the point.
The winter wind whipped through the jackets of the shivering pallbearers. As they dropped the casket into place, some of the stoics in the crowd lost the tenuous control they had over their emotions. The preacher said his final words and somebody began to sing "Amazing Grace" (the rest pretended to know the words).
"I do love this song."
As the crowd dispersed, some disinterested fellows lowered me cautiously into the earth.
"I guess this is it."
There I lay, arms--folded; eyes--closed; heart--beatless; six feet under and soon to be forgotten.
I stared down at the entombed coffin. My mother put her arm around me, still smiling.
"Welcome home, baby."
I tried to draw a breath, but my diaphragm wouldn't heave. I sat up, scanning the room curiously. Moistened eyelashes and awkward glances pervaded the crowded sanctuary.
"Who died?"
"Oh..."
"When did I die?"
I didn't recall dying.
The proclamations of a country preacher sought to prepare each heart in the room for its own eventual expiration. He pronounced good news and glad tidings with the voice of a career smoker.
"Why is this box so comfortable?"
Have you ever really thought about that? Full disclosure--this was my first time in a casket, but I remember always thinking as a child that they looked senselessly comfortable. I assume the corpse cares as much for the comfort of his casket as he does for its ornateness.
"Ah...my favorite hymn!"
The robust two-and-a-half part harmony bounced off of olive green walls and stained glass windows, blending with the broken sobs to form a scattered symphony. I raised my voice to join them, but my untimely demise appeared to have rendered my vocal chords ineffective. Even so, I mouthed the words.
"O praise him, Alleluia..."
I lifted my remains out of the pine box, placing a toe cautiously onto the awaiting floor. Entranced by the mournful volley, I hardly noticed the grinding that reverberated through my frame with each step. I proceeded to the front row where my family sat prominently. Shock had obviously arrested the minds and hearts of half the family. The other half were more forthright with their feelings.
Mourning affects people like that--invariably, yet variably. Well-intentioned folks always tried to tell me how to mourn, but mourning is like liquor--it burns, and it affects everyone differently.
Predictably, my dad occupied the end of the uncomfortable pew. For the life of me, I couldn't tell what he was thinking. Something in his face told me my death disappointed him. My mom stood by the casket, smiling. She looked better than she had in years.
The preacher proceeded to pray, offering a benediction sprinkled with a little hellfire and brimstone.
Soon enough the sanctuary cleared, the majority of the macabre congregation reentering normal life as they exited the hardwood doors.
My family crowded around my casket for one last morbid look. I peered over their shoulders at the shell of my soul.
"That's how they did my hair?!"
As big of a deal as we make about our hair, I don't suppose God cares what it looks like when He takes us home.
Logical, apathetic men guided my family deliberately into an outdated limo for the brief ride up the street to the historic cemetery.
"I guess this is as good a place as any to be laid to rest."
There's something painfully ironic about getting to ride in a limo on the way to a cemetery.
A much smaller crowd gathered at the grave-site than had filled the quaint sanctuary. This was my inner circle--all the people who knew my middle name.
It is on Facebook, so I guess hundreds of people actually know my middle name, but you get the point.
The winter wind whipped through the jackets of the shivering pallbearers. As they dropped the casket into place, some of the stoics in the crowd lost the tenuous control they had over their emotions. The preacher said his final words and somebody began to sing "Amazing Grace" (the rest pretended to know the words).
"I do love this song."
As the crowd dispersed, some disinterested fellows lowered me cautiously into the earth.
"I guess this is it."
There I lay, arms--folded; eyes--closed; heart--beatless; six feet under and soon to be forgotten.
I stared down at the entombed coffin. My mother put her arm around me, still smiling.
"Welcome home, baby."
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