I’m going to preface my little piece here by conceding I have a number of quirks and superstitions about death and dying. Not my own passing so much as everyone else’s. The usual rituals, the ones normal people find solace in, totally freak me out.
Stuff like funeral homes and hearses and piped-in organ music push a panic button in me. My heart races, the color drains from my face, and that little voice in my head morphs into a great big voice screaming ‘run.’ See, the thing is, gazing upon a recumbent human being in a box with a lid and handles isn’t soothing to me. At all. So rather than participate I send a nice card and flowers.
But, to my great disappointment, I can’t find a florist who’s able to interpret my — to me — very clear instructions. The simple, declarative sentence, ‘I don’t want a traditional funeral arrangement’ doesn’t translate well. So I try to be visual and paint a detailed picture with words. Last time, I expressed myself by using a simile, saying I wanted the ‘floral equivalent of What a Wonderful World — the Louis Armstrong song.’ Then I tossed in terms like ‘bright’ and ‘vibrant’ and ‘exuberant.’
You know what I got? A traditional funeral arrangement.
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