Alive At My Funeral

'Jerusalem, my happy home' solemnly being sung by the choir

I see my body, lifeless, white, cold, stiff. 

I see those I loved, and if my soul still allows, still love, looking sad and worn out, eyes swollen from all the tears their broken heart forced them to shed. 

If only they knew that I was so close.

There goes the sermon, this catholic priest of the catholic church I religiously attended, robed in purple, talking about my glorious life.

My daughter flipped through the funeral programme and I see me, she sees me, we both cried, this would be my last chance to see her, yet, no matter how loud I scream, she will never hear me. The silence has etched grief in her heart. 

Now, the mass is over. I had requested to be interred without the typical Nigerian style ceremony. No noise, no parties, no asoebi. I died! I am not going to give you a reason to have a party. 

So, the casket is being lowered, and if eye ways were road ways, they'd be flooded, for I lived well. 

Alas! They couldn't keep me around for as long as they would like.

Ripe old age, wrinkled and tired.

I died well.

Now, I can rest in peace and bid farewell to the bustle of being a human.

I may like my skin better as an angel.