I have always loathed people who pity themselves. I tell them that if they are in a horrible situation, it is because in some way or another you put yourself there and Lord knows the only one who’s willing to help you up is yourself. If you feel like lying there with fat crocodile tears rolling down your face because you’re not even willing to try, your fault. Not mine. If you would ask any of my friends, they would tell you even at my funeral I will tolerate no crying. None. Nada. Get the picture?
No, when I die, I want people to be happy. Not happy because I'm dead and gone, but happy because they want to be. I hate “funeral homes” because they have that horrible music, and I freely admit that yes, their décor does make me want to cry. And then there’s the person in the ugly tan or beige casket, all dressed up like their going to… well like their going to a funeral. I want to be buried in a brand new absolutely perfect dress; the one I would have worn to high school prom. The dress every girl dreams of wearing when she comes down the stairs and all noise dies, when the boy of her dreams comes and sweeps her away into a gilded silver pumpkin with four white lizards with hooves pulling it in front. Yeah, bury me in satin… And lay me down on a bed of roses- As I lay, silent and cold, I will be surrounded by the tangible scent of love and warmth, sending me away to whatever comes next.
Sink me in the river, at dawn, so for an eternity I can watch the sun rising and falling, bathing me in colors painted by the greatest artist of them all. Send me away with the words of a love song, because even though I never knew true love, I loved and was loved by a lot of people. Maybe I never got the chance to grow up as a Princess to my Prince Charming, but it sure felt nice when he was holding my hand.
No longer will people be allowed to say “A penny for your thoughts”; I’ll sell them for a dollar-They’ll be worth so much more after I’m a goner. It has always bemused me how only when you’re dead, do people start listening. When I lay down for the last time, when I rise up and meet that wonderful, amazing, painter of the sky, I’ll be wearing white when I come into his kingdom, and I’ll ask if I can be turned into a rainbow. My mother will know I'm singing when she stands under me and I shine down with my colors.
Sink me in the river, at dawn, send me away with the words of a love song. Make me into a rainbow, listen, and hear the words I’ve been singing. If I can be surrounded by roses and love, warmth and laughter, then as I sink down,
down,

down,
A smile will be on my pale, cold face. And as the silver satin turns dark and green, as my hair is tangled by fish and weeds, and as my body joins the river in ever-lasting motion, a single rose will rise. It will pull out of my lifeless hand and drift to my surface, blackened with age but in full bloom, and I’ll look down on it from where my soul rests- and bless forever the black rose.