'Ghosts' writing excercise

a writing exercise from 'The 3 a.m. Epiphany' by Brian Kitely

            After I was dead, a lot of things changed.  Things tend to that when you are die: people you knew age a few more years within a few days, others sit and cry incessantly, while still others pretend that you will walk into the room again like “ha-ha, I fooled you!”  Or even better, some pretend they never even knew you.  Funerals, I never liked them when I was alive and I like them even less now.  People all gathered around, dressed in black… so much black… staring down at your body -- well, I guess it really is not yours anymore -- all made-up; fake.  The skin looks plastic, the cheeks far too rosy compared to the bluish-white tint your skin seems to take on when there is no more blood in it anymore, which might explain why the cheeks look too rosy.   You are wearing your Sunday best that you probably wore only once while you were alive and then hung it in your closet where it collected dust and you had to throw in a few mothballs so that it would not get moth-eaten and ruined; not that it mattered since you never wore the thing.  Your hands are folded neatly, the fingers so rigid that they look like Barbie hands and you are wearing some random ring your aunt says belonged to great grandma what’s-her-name that you never met.  Your eyes are closed, the lids void of wrinkles like there would be if you had actually closed your eyes and you wonder if it’s actually your eyes in there or some marbles to help maintain a natural shape.  Yep, everything about it is fake and wrong.

            And all the people that are there: relatives you have never met, people who hated you when you were alive, possibly even some hobo who wants to feel included in something so he wandered into the group.  They will dress in their finest black clothes and sit and cry over that fake body and then go home, cry some more, eat some comfort food, then feel guilty and decide to jog it off, and before you know it, they will have forgotten about you and all of the photos of you are in some box in the attic.

            And then there is the service itself.  It goes something like: “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to remember some great friend and family member who brightened our lives and the community and was an inspiration to us all.  Let me read a section from Job, ‘and the Lord said blah blah blah…’ and now let us bow our heads in prayer… you will be missed, citizen.”  Chances are most of the people there are falling asleep, waiting to get home to watch the show they are missing by being there; thank God for TiVo.  When their heads are bowed in prayer, they are thinking about what to cook for dinner.  Because that’s what happens when you are dead; life goes on.  And you don’t.

            But the worst has yet to come… once most of the people have gone, they lower what was your body into the ground and as they begin to throw the dirt over it, that is when you realize you saw yourself for the last time… that you will never celebrate another birthday… that you will never enjoy another home-cooked meal, your mother hovering to make sure everything is to your liking.  And you realize how truly alone you are when you try to say hi to someone and they walk past -- or through -- you, without so much as glancing at you.  You try to pet a stray cat that has wandered your way and you feel nothing; the cat on the other hand, senses your presence, hisses, and runs away.  The worst has hit home, because sometimes when you die, you do not, to be cliché, rest in peace.

            “Life is short.”  Death, is not… death, is forever.  Forever alone, forever wandering, forever forgotten.  Eventually people will stop leaving flowers on your grave.  Eventually erosion will get the better of the granite, and your name will become indecipherable and then the whole stone will be gone. And no one will remember who you were… or that you were.

Author's Note

a writing exercise from 'The 3 a.m. Epiphany' by Brian Kitely