“Six, please,” the father said to me, as the mother wiped her hand across the child’s forehead to shift his damp hair away from his eyes. The doors closed. The child’s gaze followed them intently, his un-furrowed brow trying a furrow.
I had lied to my mom about not thinking about my own funeral. I’d been planning it since I was a teenager, at least the more fashionable aspects of it, dreaming about it the way some girls imagine what they want their wedding or bachelorette party to look like. Sounds a bit macabre, but I’m a firm believer that one should never leave any major life events to chance or to others.