"Casket Keepsake"

So, here I am. I really would have thought they’d have sprung for a better casket. I mean, what's up with this cheap polyester crepe? Where's the satin?

    Actually, it’s kind of funny. Like Tom Sawyer, people like the idea of faking their deaths so they can attend their own funerals. Mostly they want to see who shows up. What people don’t know is that while we may be dead, unable to move or speak, we’re very much alive in a spiritual dimension—and we very much care about what’s going on in our absence.

    Take my final wishes, for example. Yeah, yeah. I’m one of those who detailed them explicitly. I wasn’t taking any chances on leaving the particulars of my last hurrah to my ditzy wife or preoccupied son. Lots of good that did me. I mean, I specifically stated that I wanted to be cremated—and cremated within forty-eight hours of my death. None of that refrigeration stuff for me. Yet, here I am surrounded by polyester. One of them did this to me, my wife or my son, and I’m going to find out who if it’s the last thing I— oh, yeah.

    Despite the frustration, one thing does amuse me: Who says you can’t take it with you? To my surprise, I overheard the funeral director telling his assistant my family is bringing a keepsake to put in my casket. I’ve no idea what that keepsake might be, and I’m not holding my breath—so to speak. I mean, my wife lacks creativity, and my son’s clueless. My wife errs on the side of frugality and always nags me to follow her example, while my son sees me as exhibiting a false sense of economy where he’s concerned. So which one landed me in this polyester? The keepsake should answer the question.

    Obviously, the whole idea of being cremated right away was to avoid a wake with its primitive visitation and viewing practices. Think about it: not only is the prospect itself distasteful, but before those visitors and viewers can visit and view you, the mortuary people have to do their thing to justify their cashing in on the mourning family’s guil—I mean grief.

    Now I could appreciate the idea of a woman bathing me while I was alive, and I’m not entirely closed to the idea post mortem—but a man? Currently, 65% of funeral directors are men. Those odds aren’t in my favor.

    After the bathing comes preservation: removing the blood and body fluids and replacing them with embalming fluid. Actually, this part wasn’t so bad. The funeral director massaged my arms and legs to relieve the stiffness from rigor mortis so he could fold my arms and position my legs to close the casket.

    This next part wasn’t to my liking. The funeral director went to work setting my facial features. If I could have, you can bet I’d have turned this angelic smile into a more recognizable frown.

    And what’s with the closed eyes? Damn! Given the choice, I’d have turned my head ninety degrees and faced those gawkers eyes wide-open. Would that give them pause or what! Talk about winning every staring contest.

    Next came dressing the body. Right. Just look at me. Who in his right mind would imagine I specified this suit let alone this damned tie? Yet, despite all the clothes in my damned closet, this is what my family picked out. Clearly my son didn’t want to waste any of my Tom Ford casuals on all Eternity. 

    I couldn’t believe it when the mortuary cosmetologist went to work with all those camouflage creams and powder, let alone the lipstick. I mean, the purpose is to make us look more lifelike, right? Well, the last thing I want is for her efforts to enhance my natural appearance to the point that mourners say I look better now than I did. Come on! What’s wrong with looking like what I am—dead!

    What really frustrated me was when the mortuary cosmetologist got through with the makeup and just left my hair brushed straight back. I never wore my hair like that. Don't they check photos? If I could, I’d mess it up a little and shake some to the side.

    If I’d had the faintest inkling my wife and son were going to ignore my cremation stipulation, I’d at least have insisted on a closed casket. I mean, how many of those viewers with their spectrum of breath odor (I’m hoping for a lot of whiskey, actually) are going to send up a little prayer for me or at least think some positive thought? Oh, sure, they’ll look appropriately sympathetic, they’ll nod and say he looks like himself; he looks so peaceful; he looks wonderful, so natural; he looks like he’s asleep . . . 

Or worse, they’ll shake their heads and say he’s in a better place—really? Like I wasn’t meant to be here? I assure you, the good old Earth was good enough for me. I also hope no one says I wouldn’t want them crying because I damned well want to see who misses me enough to cry! And what’s with he’ll be missed? I’m gone, folks, gone; miss me! It’s now or never!

    I suppose these annoying comments are better than hearing people say he’s better off dead or asking did he leave you any money. The crudest will be if someone has the poor taste to assure my wife she’ll find another—

    Oh, yeah. Why not? I’m gone. Technically, she’s not my wife any more . . .

    Still, she and my son owe it to me to carry out my final wishes. I wonder if they’ll at least play the funeral recessional I’ve chosen. I relish seeing their reaction to the last lingering chords of my parting message in the lyrics to “You Can’t Hide.” Did one of them really think he or she would get away with not honoring my final wishes?

    Shhhh. Listen . . .

    Did you hear that knock? It’s the funeral director. He’s worked with the deceased for a while now. I suspect he knocks because he realizes there’s more to us than dead bodies.

    He’s approaching my casket. He’s carrying something—

    It’s the keepsake!

    Had I planned on internment, I’d have specified the one critical coffin keepsake to ensure my peace of mind for all Eternity. What else? My laptop. Who knows what’s on that hard drive . . .

Now he’s putting whatever it is in my casket. It’s . . .

It’s a framed family photo. Aww, how heartwarming, except—

Did I just hear him say Oops?

No wonder they got my hair wrong.

Damn.    

I wonder who they cremated.