When I say I don’t like funerals

And that I don’t want one when I die

It’s not that I am cynical

At least that’s not the only reason

It’s that those who grieve for the dead

Maybe even the ones who loved the dead person

Only actually mourn the foretelling of their own death

The thought of their own lives curtailed

When they too will end up a pile of ashes in a box.

So they cry

And tell anecdotes that are reminders of how lucky the dead person was

To be the mourner’s friend.

When you are dead you are only a catalyst for sorrow, and

At the mercy of other people’s

Narratives.

Your own stories are buried with you.