The fragrance of lilacs, jasmines and roses waft through the wintry morning air from the garden below. The unmistakable scent of marigolds linger somewhere nearby. I have always hated marigolds. They remind me of my wedding. Half-awake, I call for my housekeeper. She must have put them in a vase somewhere in the room.
“Gracie! Gracie! How many times have I told you not to put the marigolds in the vase?”
Bleary-eyed, I look for my glasses only to feel a wooden box around me. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. I’m choking! I force my eyes open and find myself in a coffin.
I look at my clothes and grumble in annoyance.
“Who picked up this suit? For Christ’s sake, I’m choking!”
I try to wiggle but the place is so compact, the clothes too tight, and the unmistakable scent of marigolds adds fuel to the fire.
“I specifically asked no marigolds! Don’t they ever listen?”
I edge past the milling crowd and gulp down the clean oxygen that my unlife craves. I cast my eyes around for family members but I find a mileu of unfamiliar faces who never bothered to keep in touch with me. My grandchildren are busy with their mobile phones. I have always hated funerals. I sigh and find myself a seat.
“I wonder what will they do when they get to know that I donated all my money to the charity.”
The priest begins the prayer service while I hum my favorite tune of Elton John.