So, how did it go?

I know that this is a form of denial, but I've got this weird habit whenever someone emotionally close to me dies where once all the social forms have been carried out, the funeral has been had or not, the body has been buried or burned or fed to the vultures (not a practice anyone I know has managed to arrange, and in decline, but I kind of like the idea) I get this instant urge to call them or message them or whatever and ask what they thought of the whole thing. Y'know, like a Yelp! review of their death and associated functions. And it's not a playful or wistful urge, it's something I have to stop and remind myself is. not. possible.

But I always imagine them talking about it not in a sad or scared way, but more like you might describe a movie or a party or a meal that had some good points, some stuff that was fun, and other bits that just didn't work the way they should have. "Aunt Grace looked nice, and I really liked what she said about me, but what the hell was Uncle Bill thinking? I mean, he probably won't show up to his own funeral sober, but couldn't he have kept the flask put away for duration of the sermon at least? Oh, how was the chicken? I know you probably didn't notice but it looked nice. Anyway, nice talking to you again but I gotta go now, catch you later maybe."

So I guess that's my eulogy for the day. Maybe something better later, maybe not, but I'm fifty and my mother died last year and my buddy died last week and I just realized that's pretty much the way it's going to be from here on out, one major death a year until it becomes two until it becomes three until it becomes my turn and for fuck's sake I didn't want to be the first but I don't want to be the last either like the Lady Sharrow whom I recently wrote about, just book me a seat somewhere in the middle, thanks, and feel free to send me a message when it's all said and done, four out of five stars but won't be back again.