It’s My Party and You’ll Dance If I Want You To
Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today to plan a funeral. But don’t worry — it’s going to be the most soul-satisfying, life-affirming, totally-not-creepy sendoff that ever consecrated a cadaver.
See, I recently attended the memorial service for a beloved family member who died suddenly — and much, much too young. None of us knew how she wanted to take her final leave (coffin? viewing? urn? ocean?) or to whom she wanted donations made in lieu of flowers (Humane Society? homeless shelter?) because these aren’t the sorts of things on which busy, prime-of-life people spend a lot of time ruminating. So we guessed, by god, because what else can you do? And we shuffled through the traditional paces prescribed for an aggrieved family: choosing a casket, ordering flowers, designating burial garments and jewelry, assembling a slide show, banging out a stark and bloodless obit, and attempting to sum up this woman’s life, character, and passions for the eulogizing pastor who never even met her. Not once.