The flowers were solemn yet elegant. The quartet was tranquil and mindful. Dressed in a smart black dress, a classic fit and flare, I was fine – more or less. My heart was pulsing, my lungs were expanding and contracting. This was not my real funeral. No, today was a test of whose lives I had affected during my round in the game of life.

Like most people, I had a midlife crisis. It started with an invitation to a 15 year college reunion and spiraled from there. Rather than buying a new car or having a steamy affair, mine was satisfied by a simple funeral. The funeral became a threshold where the other side lay a paradise free from judgement and questions. But first, I had to see if I had made an impact on the world, in order to declare that I was worthy of continuing on into the later phases of life.

I’m sure you’re wondering why I chose to have a funeral. You know, why not volunteer at a soup kitchen. The truth is, funerals have always appealed to me. I’m not afraid of death. To me, funerals are just a final moment to commemorate a life – reflect, appreciate, and say goodbye. So I don’t think it’s strange that I decided to throw myself a funeral. In fact, I even deemed it appropriate. I was tired of living in a big city and I craved a quiet, simple life in the countryside. I had no family left, and a few friends, who probably wouldn’t miss me all that much anyway, so I decided to indulge my desires and go. I purchased a quaint cottage by a lake and planned to spend my days like Thoreau, thinking and writing in pleasant solitude. This funeral would commemorate my city life, and say goodbye to the old me.

I had hoped that people could come flocking to the church to rave about my accomplishments, my dreams, my life. They would exclaim, “Oh how tragic! And so young!” If they came, it would be confirmation that I had done something right with my life. It would mean that I had fulfilled my duty to make an impact on the world, and my desires to be alone for the rest of time would be justified.

~~~

As I waited at the funeral, my hands were clammy. The funeral was supposed to start an hour ago, but no one had arrived yet. I sat in the pews of the church and stared at the heavy oak casket. I knew it was empty, but somehow it made me gloomy to think that I could be in there. Then I imagined lying inside it, the soft satin against my cool flesh, the pleasant confinement, that peace and quiet, it all didn’t seem so bad. Compared to the hard wood under my bottom, the taffeta of my dress imprinting itself on my thighs, and the traffic rushing outside the church - the coffin was bliss.

Seconds ticked by, then minutes, soon hours. I sat in a stony solitude, praying that someone would arrive and save me from my misery. My thoughts began to spiral and I let the little glimmer of hope become extinguished. No one was going to come. Yet I sat there, waiting. I had no idea what to do next, but eventually the florist came and took away the flowers, the quartet packed up their instruments, and I prepared to leave.
The shock took a while to sink in. I had been so sure that at least a few co-workers would have attended, maybe a friend or two, and perhaps a few strangers looking for free refreshments. I shuffled out of the church in a trance. My heart throbbed worse than the time my first love broke up with me, worse than when the last of my family died, worse than I ever thought was possible for a human heart. My head pounded as I tried to come to terms with the close to my city life – unloved and forgotten. Just as insignificant as the next. My suitcase of meager belongings felt so heavy in my feeble arms that I gave up and abandoned it on the sidewalk. Thoughts darted into my head, playing peak-a-boo with my awareness, until I was so confused and disoriented I began to cry. With each tear, another thought came to me.

“No one cares about you.”
“You didn’t do anything with your life.”
“You’re a waste of a life.”

Mascara running, eye liner smeared and hair awry, I made my way to the train station. I bought a one way ticket to the lake, and mounted the platform of the train station. The whistle of the train was piercing as it rushed towards the station. The rusty red of the tracks looked so cozy and inviting, the warm yellow of the train’s lights was comforting, promising relief from the pain. The train barreled down the tracks as I stepped towards it and anticipated the moment of impact. The longest second of my life stretched before me as I waited to be saved from the agony seeping through my bones. I closed my eyes waiting…waiting…waiting…the invitations!