My neighborhood is across the street from a cemetary and masoleum, which is next door to a funeral home. About a mile to the east, down Hill Road, is another cemetary, and about a mile to the west is a larger funeral home. Thus, I think I see more funeral processions than the average bear. For no obvious reason, when I saw one this morning, I suddenly found myself contemplating my own funeral procession. I guess I arrived at that line of thinking because this morning's procession was rather short.

I wonder how many people will be at my funeral. More importantly, will they each drive separately, making my procession more impressive, or carpool, thus cheating my of my rightful glory? Seriously, were I to be killed in a car accident tomorrow, who would be at my funeral? My friends are scattered far and wide and few of them are earning fat bank. More to the point, my friends are the grandest assemblage of talent and creativity imaginable, but not terribly numerous. Even if they all dragged their parents, would there be twenty people there? Maybe add in a few family members and I can get to thirty. Hmmm, thirty people (optimistic estimate). Should I be grateful that so many would mourn my passing, or sad that they are so few?

Of course, the truly disheartening part is how few of them will still bother putting up with me when I die at sixty. By then, it'll be me, the priest, and a couple gravediggers. (Those bastards better not steal my jewelry! I've seen Garden State, I'm wise to their methods.) Woe is me.

This was ad hoc. Someday, I should sit down and write a much more comprehensive and meaningful post about death.

H-A-N
Have a calculated night.