A Tampa Funeral

If you’ll glance to the west with me, you’ll witness a flocculent mass of gray clouds already flashing the sky and with licks of lighting, like a great ominous beast off the smooth-bodied gulf that gently pushes up rushing, lapping currents of clear-azure seawater toward the white-powdery sand. This storm enters our circle of living like a reminder of death. Maybe it’s all for me. Maybe it’s all meant specifically for my funeral. It presses from the sky toward land, making me aware of my coming departure from this world.

Mind you, I’ve already departed from my body but have decided to stay around to witness the final gathering for my sake. In a moment, you’ll come down with me to some great, rented fellowship hall in the middle of Tampa somewhere, probably the same place that Jimmy Dash was married; what an ironic place to exit the world, for that wedding was like an open door to the beginning of a new season in life. But allow me for a moment to dwell up here a bit longer, for it is up here I can see the approaching storm from an angle that no man can see.

I astrologically project myself above this dense working of boxed buildings, sectioned off by highway that stretches in a straight line across miles and miles of flat, nearly sea-level land and a dense garden of foreign foliage; trees puffing up like frozen, green clouds, and other bright and dark tendrils and appendages of the tropical forest that reach up from the ground as though they had all, at one point, been swirling around in a lively frenzy to emerge from the soil but were frozen with some curse to remain with only their outermost digits and limbs free to breathe. In between the dense shadows of southern-green are peppered bits of visible orange. Yes, they have orange trees here.

What a wonderful place to die. Different than the brown wasteland I grew up in. From up here, I see the backs of blew and red birds flying below me. I’m up further than they can breathe. Birds as big as children walk across green, square patches of lawn in the front yards of white houses, and in a one-dimensional view, I can see their long, skinny, banana-yellow beaks as they mosey between properties. From this high up, the ponds and manmade lakes that swell between hotels and shady parks have an odd dimension of transposition with the sky. It’s like a mirror to the sky, or perhaps even, a window into another world visible only from far up here. As I look into that window, I think I can see myself. No, wait, it’s only a spring of water shooting up into the sky. I was fooled by its movement. I’m afraid that in this world, I shall never see my reflection again.

There’s that funeral home. Come, the storm is coming. I’m descending further into a realm that feels somehow transparent, though visible. I feel that if I concentrate, I’ll be able to see through every wall and inanimate object. As I sink through a series of ceilings and floors, I can actually feel them. I press them gently and they welcome me in, letting me know that the rules of nature in my spectral state have become obsolete. I may never see myself in a reflection once more, but I can certainly see myself in the open coffin, a strange image I’d never associate with myself, nor have I ever seen in the mirror.

I look so counterfeit, as though someone has taken my real body and replaced it with a wood and plastic-laced dummy. Flowers adorn my dark, auburn coffin with other bits of green ferns with strange beads and little circular, bright dots. Let’s forget the outer details as I settle back into my body. The eyelids are closed but I can still see through them. I arrive just in time as the line begins to form. The first people that gaze over me are people I don’t recognize. It’s an old woman with died black hair…perhaps a woman who used to mind me as a child.

The next is a girl I recognize instantly. It’s funny, because I’d known her for such a short time. Our acquaintance was hardly even a friendship, yet upon meeting her through a group of friends attending university in Arizona, it didn’t take long for an infatuation for her to form inside me, creating a ball of anxiety just below my heart that would cause me to behave rashly and sometimes dumbly when I was in her presence. She gazes upon me with her blue eyes. She doesn’t cry. Can’t say I’m surprised or that I even expected her to cry. She’s dressed in a white, buttoned up top and a pink, flower dotted skirt.

It’s interesting to think about how much preparation went into the dress of these people for such an occasion as my death. I see she’s straightened her blonde hair. I like it much better curly. I’m embarrassed to admit now that I fail to remember her name. Perhaps it’s not embarrassing, when one dies, to forget the people that contributed to or mattered little in your life. She stands there for a second and makes a face, pursing her lips in pity, then she moves on.

Next up (I’m surprised it’s no one in my family; perhaps they all took a backseat to my friends) is Patrick Webber. Patrick Webber: I knew you when the heat in Arizona reached its spring height. Hate or love you, people always responded to you. We weaved in and out of traffic in your green explorer between mountains made green with irregular amounts of rain. How could I forget your name?

And how could I forget the time my roommate Carl ran away? You were part of his discipleship group, having the same leader (David) who happened to call me and ask me for a play-by-play of what exactly had happened. Oblivious as you were to who was on the phone, you started shouting out derogatory words for female anatomy (I’m certain, these outbursts referred to Carl, each word a schoolyard flung-insult depicting a scared little inferior) and David asked me, ‘who’s that?’ ‘Oh, it’s Patrick.’ ‘I see,’ he said and we continued our business. I remember the absolute drop of countenance when you asked me with a smile who I’d spoken to on the phone. I told you it was David and your face contorted into a terrified rubber mask that froze in still position until you could finally manage to leave the room and bask in your fear alone. My how it delighted me.

But now, you don’t grin or smile. You shed bitter tears and step down close to me. Your tears fall on my dry chin and across my still forming stubble. You don’t say anything. You just leave.

Next up: I’m expecting my father but don’t actually see him approach the coffin. Someone else is standing here…yet another acquaintance I hardly knew. He was a young kid I’d gone to summer-camp with in Washington. I see my father’s hair a few feet away, sitting in the first row. I can’t see his face. I’m realizing only now that this line of people is not THE line that concludes funerals, but a pre-line of only the faithful few who’ve chosen to see me before the actual funeral. This I conclude as I see a dense myriad of heads (I can only see foreheads) pour into the hall and sit down.

I have to sit up for a minute to see who’s here. The small line that had formed around my coffin dispersed to sit down, since the funeral is about to start. For a moment, I’m afraid that people can see me, as though I’ve accidentally sat up in full possession of my dead body. People are sitting around and talking to one another and don’t even look at me. I witness everyone I’ve ever known in my life. There is something so perfect about all of this; all these people congregating in a way I had wished they would all my life, only now they do it upon my death.

A subconscious fantasy that had always taken a hold of me in lonely hours always played out in my mind, in which every friend I ever had, or peer whom I wished to come closer to, would attend some great party with me where we could all dine together and celebrate life. But now they’re all here morning my death and I wish they’d celebrate life like in my fantasy. Perhaps they still can. They, of course, don’t all know each other, but they melt together now, mixing with best friends who know my darkest secrets, women whom I thought I’d been in love with but whose affection I merely craved in the presence of their beauty, men of influence who I wanted very much to be like one day, people that were friends merely by geographical obligation, and family I had not even been close to.

Somehow, in the weight of it all, I feel not a shred of regret. I can tell you now that I’m at peace with every decision I’ve made and the degree of union I’ve made with every one of these people. Yet, my only problem is the torpid sort of brush to everyone’s face. It is this very moment of viewing their moping faces that I witness a change that seems to switch on like a light-bulb. They’re all looking at me now. They’re all terrified. Some are smiling. Some are standing up and backing away. Oops. It seems that as I had suspected only in a slight twinge of paranoia, I actually am using my actual dead body to sit up and have a look around.

The tremors of supernatural panic spread like wildfire and reach the minister who stands with wide eyes and trembling lips. What do I do? Lay back down? I’ve come this far…I sit up further feeling each of my obsolete joints clicking back into action, my back cracking with numbing sparks of wonderful life.

I stand up in the coffin and now people are gasping. Forgive me everyone, but I must give my neck a crack, nodding it from side to side. I’m suddenly incredibly aware of how old and unused this body feels only after a few days of being dead. I step slowly out of the coffin, onto the ground, and make my way to the microphone, trying to hold back a wry grin that forms at the edge of my lips. I try not to look at anyone as I step gently passed the minister and take the mic. I stare over the sea of bobbing and jerking heads all turning to yell and whisper in shock.

‘Fear not.’ I say. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can think to say. ‘I uh…well…I’m back. I don’t know for how long but eh…I should be going soon, but before I do, before this show gets going I just wanted to say a few things. I had a good life and I don’t regret anything. Please don’t get all choked up about how young I died because…we all die young, in a sense. Don’t we? I mean, maybe compared to Methuselah, yeah? No? Okay, sorry. I can see that you’re all still a bit frightened. It really is kind of funny when you think about it. Why are we so frightened of people we miss so much? Seems kind of odd, doesn’t it. We sit there in our pews at a funeral and wish that the person would come back, but we never really think about how we’d actually respond if he did come back. We’re afraid of something…simply because it stopped breathing two days ago and two days later started breathing again with no problem. I’m sorry, I’m rambling here. This all seems rather trite, given that this is the final speech I’ll ever make in my life. Who am I kidding? I’m not even alive anymore. Goodness. Can I start over? Okay, I’ll start over and make this brief…uh…all I have to say is, I had a happy life, and I had a happy death…and not because I can fly around and astral project myself and stuff, but because the memories of life are wonderful, and where I’m going to is even more wonderful. So please, don’t be sad, celebrate that you’re still alive at this thing! Don’t think of it as a “oh, poor dead boy” party, but a “hot dog! I made it longer than he did” party. So eh…yeah. Play Staying Alive at the reception, eat lots of uh, the eh, sugary stuff and eh…oh, what I really want to do is give each and every one of you a hug goodbye instead of having you line up to see me, so can we do that? Preacher, is that okay? All right then.’

I take a step down and people are crying now, wiping their eyes and coming to hug me. I’m afraid I can feel my spirit weakening. I won’t be able to inhabit this body for much longer. One by one I hug them all. Some take longer than others, and I hate to say it, but the ones that take a long time, I don’t care much for: the fat uncles and the little old ladies. They’re the ones that spend too much time saying goodbye and then they…try to give me advice? On the afterlife? I don’t want to leave on bad terms with them, so I just smile and nod and pretend like I’ll take their advice.

My friend Roy gives me a big pat on the back and asks, ‘How does it feel to be dead, my brother?’ ‘Feels great,’ I say. He laughs and walks away, sipping out of a water bottle and talking loudly to other friends. This is what I like. After a while, the hugs change. It’s not as though they’re saying goodbye, but as though they’re saying hello with wide-eyed excitement. My baseball coach gives me a sentimental hug. I tell him he’s a sissy and I smack him on the butt. He takes a step back, holding back a grin and pointing a finger at me. He disappears into the crowd.

The blonde girl whose name I can’t remember approaches me and gives me a soft hug. I turn in and give her a big deep kiss on the lips, feeling her pull away and squeal all at the same time. She laughs, but that doesn’t stop her from slapping me in the face. ‘Gross! You’re so gross! You and your dead, disgusting mouth’ ‘Well,’ I say, ‘That’s just payback for not kissing me while I was alive!’ She leaves laughing. I’d say we left on good terms.

Suddenly, I see my dad. He’s crying and I suddenly feel a terrible burn of grief swell up within me. I go to give him one last embrace and this is precisely the moment I lose control of the body. It just falls from me as though it were a lose pair of clothing hanging over my shoulder. It’s all dead weight, and it hits the ground with a thud, making everyone gasp and scream out loud. People jump back in terror and once the initial surprise and shock has ended, people start to softly chuckle.

I try immediately to jump back into the body, but it’s like trying to jump through a door without opening it. I’ve exhausted my use of that body. I guess the minister figures that everything that really needed to be said was said already, so they skip the speech and the eulogy, and just get right to the reception in the next room.

I go and sit by the coffin where a few big men had picked up my body and thrown it back inside. I sit on the stage listening to the music in the next room. They’re playing party music and people are dancing like it’s a wedding. I want to go in and take a look at them but I know it’s probably not a good idea. I’ve exhausted my stay in this world as well.

I sit alone thinking for a while. As I sit thinking, a torrent of light comes down on me through the ceiling, through a crack in the sky. I look up at it with wonder for a while and even a little bit of fear. I decide to go to the bathroom before I go: it could be a long trip. I come back to the bright torrent where I immediately begin to levitate slowly, picking up speed as I ascend. I have to yawn several times as the air pressure changes. Once I burst through the atmosphere at a good speed and escape the macrocosm of our universe, I’m able to relax. I can see one of the stewardess’s up ahead, coming by with bags of peanuts.