|May you be forty years in Heaven before the Devil knows you're dead|
A humid breeze sways the delicate dandelion heads outside,
and I tug on my itchy black wool skirt.
The minister drones on,
like the bees in summer.
The air is heavy with emotion,
and people are crying.
But I am dry-eyed.
Strange, we were the bestest friends.
I knew you when we were both girls
we played with Barbies,
graduated to kissing boys,
We crashed our first car together,
lost our virginities in the same room,
to the same boy.
Not at the same time, thank God.
And... now you're gone.
It's hard to believe that you're
never going to laugh at my corny jokes;
never going to cry over mushy chick flicks;
never going to be there for me,
I'll never hug you again.
And now I step up onto the pulpit and clear my throat.
"May you have food and raiment,
A soft pillow for your head,
May you be forty years in heaven
Before the devil knows you're dead"
I smile through my tears,
I can almost hear your laughter.
I know you hate(d)
traditional boring funeral speeches.
I shocked the mourners
as I started laughing
before walking to your casket
and pressing a kiss
upon your cold, still lips.
My hot tears wet your cold cheek,
stain your white silk blouse.
Blouse, I ask you.
You never wore a blouse in your life.
And before they hurriedly usher me away,
their expressions a war between
mortification and bone-crushing grief,
I drop a single rose onto your folded hands.
A single champagne-coloured, salmon-tipped rose.
Sleep well my friend, we will meet again.
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