Welcome. Make sure I’m gone.
At my funeral, platitudes and panaceas are banned. I am dead.
There is no silver lining.
Except for those I leave money to.
Surround me with purple and yellow flowers.
Greens in exotic baskets.
But just a few spectacular pieces.
Then feed the hungry or cure a disease.
In my name, of course.
Play joyous music at my funeral.
Songs with rising crescendos or haunting melodies.
Refrains that stick in your head repeating endlessly.
“Ding Dong, the witch is dead…” No, not that one.
Please don’t say, “She looks so natural.”
No one says it to me now. Be honest.
Apologize for times you done me wrong.
I forgive you. Forgive me.
Now go and live better than before.
At my funeral, there will be no preaching.
Pomposity is forbidden; no performances please.
Save it for the Sunday service.
In life, God was my friend, my sustainer.
He was there when all you weren’t. Or couldn’t be.
We were so intimate, we spoke in the shower.
I had great insights nude and soapy.
So speak of my faith.
And that I’m dancing with Him now.
And leave it at that.”