BACK ROW AT MY OWN FUNERAL
- 4 days ago
- 1 min read
By S.D Gould
I choose a seat near the back.
Good lighting.
Terrible turnout.
They’ve gone with lilies.
Predictable. Kind of cheap really.
No one consulted me.
The officiant says I was
“quietly brave.”
I make a note to haunt him.
My mother cries at the appropriate volume,
I’m proud of her.
Two of my cousins’ whisper about parking.
Someone checks their phone
mid-eulogy—
probably to confirm I’m actually dead.
They call me kind.
Resilient.
A private person.
No one mentions
how exhausted I was.
The slideshow loops a version of me
that never cancelled plans,
or rehearsed exits,
never Googled the milligrams needed
to quietly fall through the floor.
The sandwiches are dry.
I knew they would be.
When they say
“He’s at peace,”
I nearly stand to correct them.
I am not at peace.
I am taking attendance.
And I am disappointed
by the accuracy.