You'd be late to your own funeral....

S. Hileman Iannazzo

(Better Late than Never Contest Entry)

I didn’t know morticians don't bother with shoes until I was hauling ass to the church in my stocking feet. I also didn’t know that even though I was the guest of honor, I’d have to ‘walk’ to my own funeral. They loaded my corpse into a shiny black car driven by a somber looking fellow dressed in a neat charcoal suit.  While they were arranging all of the flowers around my coffin, I tried to slide in, but I was too late and cursed myself for having stopped to smoke a cigarette on the way out to the line of cars, each adorned with a  tiny purple flag attached with magnets.  I tried hopping in several other cars, but it was to no avail. I just didn't have the skills of an older, more experienced ghost. I’d only been dead for four days!  To Be honest, I didn’t have a lot of skills when I walked with the living.  I was sort of good at lots of things but never excellent at one thing. Out of options, I booked it all the way to St Patrick's, not wanting to be too too late for my own funeral. I mean better late than never but still I didn’t want to miss any fun outbursts of uncontrollable sobbing. I was also hoping that someone would drape themselves over my casket and flail about dramatically while screaming “Make it not be true!” 

I arrived, with the last of the mourners, and I have to admit I was sorta glad I didn’t have to walk up all those stone steps, I sorta grabbed the jacket of my great uncle James and let him drag my spirit along behind him. I was never one to pass up a free ride. 

The pews were peppered with relatives and friends, still it wasn’t standing room only and that was a let down.  I should have died more dramatically. I should have fallen off a cliff or been chewed up and spit out by a great white. Truthfully I had always hoped to make the papers when I croaked, not just the obituaries but like in the first few pages. Instead a quiet cancer ate at my insides for quite some time before I got sick, and by then, well, the fat lady was already singing. I didn't even have time to make a wish to the make a wish foundation. It would have been concert tickets for sure, and a meet and greet. What a gyp I thought as I took a seat far away from my sister.  Nothing personal, but she was a loud cryer and I wanted to be able to hear my eulogy. I Kicked myself for not writing that myself when I saw my best friend take his place at the podium and unfold his prepared ‘kind words’.  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I cringed at what he may say.  I figured this could go either way. He sure did me proud, and I was hardly embarrassed at all by his anecdotes. He left out all the illegal stuff and more than one or two drunk stories. Whew I thought, I guess we were really gonna take some stuff to the proverbial grave. 

They played some music and said some nice prayers, and I, in my new and might I add svelte ghostly ‘body’ found myself wishing they’d hurry up so I could go smoke.  When I’d sat there for what seemed forever, I began to fidget.  Suddenly, I felt as if there were eyes upon me, which had to be paranoia as being a phantom should have rendered me undetectable. I was right about that part, what I hadn’t considered was that the dead can see the dead, especially on consecrated grounds. Shit, I muttered and turned in my seat. 

There was my mom, grinning at me, tears in her eyes. She sat with my Dad, who was leaning on the bench praying.  He looked up and caught me watching them, slack jawed and awestruck. 

He winked at me and then made a shushing gesture with his finger. I shushed, but I could not stop staring at the two people I had missed most in the living world. I was overjoyed to see their bodies had been restored, neither was sickly, hell they looked better now. Since I was an apparition, I skedaddled across the aisle to sit with my parents. My mother began bombarding me with questions about the family, and telling me I was too thin. I laughed and replied, “shoulda seen me before the cancer diet Ma”.  Dad reached over and gripped my shoulder for a brief moment, something he’d done a thousand times back on the other side. We sat, watching as everyone who was still alive filed out of the chapel.  It was a bit of a let down as far as funerals go but I was glad it was over. 

After a bit, we ceased speaking and just enjoyed the quiet and beauty of the church. I sat between them, like I had always done in the front seat of the car, except this time I didn’t get car sick and puke on someone. Being dead had it’s perks. I asked what Heaven was like. I asked where Elvis was. I asked about old friends and long gone family. I asked how and when we’d be heading there. My mother remarked that I still talked too much. She was right, so I just smiled sheepishly. I felt young again. I felt rejuvenated and repaired. I felt the last fifty years worth of weight leave my shoulders. I felt free. 

The first place we stopped before seeing anyone or doing my paperwork in Heaven was a Howard Johnson's restaurant. My dad flirted with the waitress and my mom ordered strawberry shortcake for dessert.  I ordered the lasagna just as I always did. 

Fin.