On this bright summer day, when people would have been content to lounge around outside in the overbearing sun, I am being laid to rest. I died a week ago in an accident involving roses, whipped cream, a crosswalk, and a speeding Toyota Corolla. My boyfriend would lament in the following days that he shouldn’t have let me go out to get those roses for him. Or let me talk him into using whipped cream. On the other hand, he was glad that my mind had been in a happy place when I lost consciousness and three pints of blood. There are two sides to every truth, and this was surely a good example of that.
My funeral is being conducted at a funeral home quite close to where we live. It’s actually a pretty nice place that gives off an air very similar to how we lived our lives together. Sean spared no expense in making this ceremony a worthy tribute to me. Bouquets of carnations, roses, and tulips adorned my coffin and the pews. The walls, too, bloomed with an elegance not unlike the earth itself. Behind my place of temporary rest, seven large portraits stood proudly. Each one was hand-painted and told a story about a moment in my life. Undoubtedly, many of the people who come will think the set-up over the top. Then again, none of them knew me.