3.18

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.

“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.

President Dave had always just requested the dollar dues count from Treasurer John when the door at the bottom of the stairs would bang open and clatter shut, heralding the beginning of Faith’s noisy assault on the creaking stairs, carrying her canvas bag stuffed with hymns and clippings.