Attending My Own Eulogy

A candle does not dim its light when it lights other candles; rather, it burns brighter.

On the day of my funeral, it’s sunny and warm, exactly as I’d hoped.

The pavement sparkles with possibility. It’s the final chapter of my book, but I can’t shake the suspicion of a new one beginning.

Before me is an archway adorned in balloons, photographs taped to the perimeters. I squint to make sense of the pictures. There’s one of me smiling on a colorful street in Colombia, my hair falling in long ringlets along my back. In another, I’m crouched in a ball along the rolling hills of Switzerland, petting a farm cow. In a third, I’m grinning in my familiar hospital bed, tubes attached every which way to my broken body. I smile and wipe a single tear as these memories rush into my consciousness like a broken dam.

For one final time, I inhale the comfort of the sun on my bald head.

Cloaked in gloriously unconventional yellow — my favorite childhood color — I take a brave breath and walk through the doors.

Peering curiously out into the sea of salt and sniffles, I locate my parents. Disheveled, they stare back, the creases along their eyes telling tales of sleepless nights. They slurp back boulder-sized tears as I take the stand. I breath in again, this time sharply, my throat chock-full of nerves.

“Albeit short, it was a beautiful life,” I begin, pausing to read the room. My…