DREAMS
I like to attend funerals. Some people like balls and parties, some like weddings; but not
me, I much prefer sadder gatherings. I like to practice, you see, for when my turn comes.
I’m a perfectionist. I want to die properly, correctly, regally. Some of these dead people
I’ve seen… no, it would not do for me. My death must be different. For a funeral, you
understand, is not simply to honor one’s life. It is also to assess one’s death.
I already know what they will say about my life, I’ve taken care of that. I’ve thought the
whole thing through, I’m a planner. I’ve dropped the necessary hints, did a favor or two,
given a coin here and there. Oh, they will definitely say good things about me, about the
life I have lived. Trumpets will sound, bells will toll, tears will be shed! But it is my
death that concerns me. I cannot seem to plan the darn thing; at least, not down to the
end.
For example, to die on a Wednesday simply won’t do. Funeral arrangements probably
won’t be made until Friday, and a Friday funeral is just uncouth. No, the ideal day to die
would be on Sunday, preferably in the afternoon. The majority of my friends would be at
home, then, relaxing with their families. Upon hearing the tragic news, they would have a
chance to think about me, about my life; to properly grieve for the loss of me. And the
funeral would then be on a Tuesday. Oh, Tuesday is such a fine day for a funeral. Why, I
dare say, Tuesdays were made for funerals! The week, the whole week, would be mine,
wrought in mourning.
But how to arrange for a Sunday death, that is the question. I know how I want to die
(why some people die these horrible ugly deaths, I have no idea). I want to come home
from church, dressed in my Sunday best. I would have my afternoon tea, as I do
everyday, and sit down on the sofa to watch some television. And slowly, an angel would
descend down to me, beckoning me to follow him home. Now that is a fine way to die, an
elegant way. For one must be elegant even in death.
Oh what a funeral I attended recently, a dreadful affair it was. First of all, it took place on
a Saturday. Now, of all the days one may choose to have a funeral, a Saturday is
especially out of the question. Really, I don’t know what Beatrice was thinking dying on
a Friday, and why the funeral arrangements were so rushed. I would have much rather
waited until Monday to pay my respects. And as if that weren’t bad enough, when I saw
what Beatrice was wearing, why my heart skipped a beat. Of all the dresses one may
wear to one’s own funeral, never have I seen such an utterly tacky one. Why the whole
thing was practically red! Really, I had told Beatrice time and again how unsuitable red is
for her. Were she not dead, I could have slapped her silly for such a gaffe. But true to
Beatrice in life, that old girl never did have any sense of style.
The best funeral I attended was by far Gertrude’s. Oh, what a splendid affair that was.
Truly, as regal as they come! Trudy was hit by a bus, crossing the street. It chopped her
legs right off, God bless her, but what a fine number the mortician did on her. Oh, I
promise you, one could hardly see any scars with the naked eye (and I even brought my
magnifying glass). And the way Trudy held her own, even carried herself, I dare say;
why, it was simply magnificent. Her hair was done up in the way she used to wear back
in high school – oh, I remember with fondness those days. Her makeup – perfection. Just
the right touch of blues on the eyes and a tasteful nude on the lips. (I surely did inquire
about the makeup artist and have booked her already). And the dress; why, it was simply
to die for! Never have I seen such a gorgeous gown before. Oh me, I was so happy to see
my dear Trudy go with such elegance, I did shed quite a few tears. And yet, as the years
pass, it’s Beatrice’s funeral that I always come back to.
I am 77 years old, my time will soon come. Don’t think me vain; I am who I am. And I so
want you to like me! My name is Abigail, but you may call me Gail. Most people do. I
was born a lucky woman, in an unfortunate time. The Great Depression was still
underway as my parents conceived me, the apple of their eye. I didn’t have any other
siblings. My parents seemed pleased enough to just have me. Our family was never rich,
not in the strict sense of the word. But we were aristocrats at heart. My mother taught me
to be a lady through and through, and my father was the most generous, kind-hearted man
I ever did meet, even if he lacked in intellect.
I never had children myself, could never imagine myself having any. Why, the kinds of
harm a pregnancy imposes on the body! (I never strayed far from my usual size 4, in
youth). But, I must also admit, I never met a man I felt was worthy of my hand in
marriage, or my offspring in the flesh. Oh, don’t get me wrong – there were several
prospects. But not a one of them would do. It simply wasn’t in the cards for me. As my
mother always said, “Gail, pull yourself together, slap some lipstick on those pale lips of
yours, and smile, Goddammit, no matter what life throws at you.” And that’s exactly
what I’ve always done. I don’t let anything hold me, or my decorum, back.
What have I done with my life, you ask. Seeing as I’ve had no family of my own, in the
traditional sense of the word, to devote myself to (what a boring chore), I’ve given
myself to the greater good. I have selflessly spent countless hours giving the likes of
Beatrice lessons in proper etiquette (if only she heeded my advice). That, and a factory
job for 38 years. My sustenance was quite meager, believe you me, but I got by. My
wages, combined with inheritance from my parents (I’ve already mentioned, we weren’t
very rich) gave me enough to live off of. For the other things, I had to rely on the many
men in my life, and they rarely did disappoint.
Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not sexist. But men… well, you know. They’re not very
smart. Show them a dress, with some trace of hips and breasts, and they’re done for. A
pretty face on top of that, why that’s a bargain deal! Back in my day, women did not
prostitute themselves the way they do today; they didn’t need to. In fact, no self-
respecting man would ever look twice at a girl like that. Now, as you well know, women
walk around practically naked, leaving nothing to the imagination. There is no more
seduction in this world… Oh, but what was it I was talking about? Ah yes, men, and their
wits. A woman, with just a bit of brains, can most definitely sculpt a fine gem for herself.
Believe me, I’ve done it dozens of times.
Back when I was 22 years old, fresh out of college, I fell in love for the first time. His
name was William; I always called him Billy. He was quite a catch. He had chestnut hair
and big hazel eyes. He was tall and handsome, stood just over six feet tall. Together with
my five feet and 2 inches, we made quite an odd couple, but Billy always found my petite
size attractive.
Billy came from the South, where boys called a lady “Ma’am” and treated a girl with
respect. My my, I sure was fond of Billy! But good thing my mother set my head straight,
the young silly girl that I was. She called me in for a talk, right after I started working at
the factory that was. And she put it to me straight, as she most often did: “You listen to
me good, Abigail,” she said. “I better not hear any more nonsense about this William
fellow. He’s not good for you, you must see that. Look at the clothes he wears and the
way he talks, why he’d only bring shame to our good name. He will never be welcome in
our family.” With that, our conversation was over, and so was my love affair.
Oh, trust me, I cried my eyes out for poor old Billy; he really was good to me! But he was
certainly below me in class, you understand, so a union would never be possible. This is
the simple truth of the matter, the way life is. So I moved on, but I never did let my heart
get as involved in other affairs, didn’t seem worth the price.
I’m an old woman now. I’m in great shape, and yet I know, my time too shall come;
perhaps soon, maybe not. The final wish of this dying old maid is only this: please Lord,
take me on a Sunday, dressed in my green-blue dress (you know the one, hanging in my
closet on the right side, directly next to the ugly old gray dress I keep around, only You
know why). Let my funeral be on a Tuesday, so that all of my friends, all of my funeral
guests (I’ve prepared the list and the invites) may think of me and mourn me all week
long. Please let me look good, God, and not like old Beatrice (may she rest in peace),
unfit and tacky even in death. And most important of all, God, make my funeral grander
than my life ever was.
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