I drove the hearse to my funeral today. What a ride, accompanied by an organ version of Handel’s Messiah on my cellphone. Took forever. The final ride, I mean. Gloomy faces in the side-view mirrors cast downward. Brows sullen like Monday morning, desolate. I was the only clown in the procession, ferryman out of sight. Typical. I imagined the willows lining the roadway were Buckingham guards weeping for me, white-crowned sparrows on their muscular branches singing my rapture. Teetering butterflies, drunk off random wildflowers, zig zagged in air dances, barely noticed. I saw the mausoleum up ahead, its dour façade egging me on, whispering promises only I and sextons understand. No time for a last feast. My hunger was AWOL anyway. My obituary, short: He came, he saw, dodged a few bullets, conquered zilch. Mountains aren’t meant to be scaled; they’re too busy admiring their streams to notice the fools attempting the slopes.
