 My funeral
Imagining
my own "untimely
death"
By Zohreh Khazai Ghahremani
February 18, 2004
iranian.com The news of yet another untimely death makes me wonder
if there is such a thing as "timely death?" I mean with
the technology helping man to live beyond his useless years and,
on the other hand, accidents and disasters continuing to interrupt
nature, this is one aspect of "time" one can't keep track
of. I imagine my own "untimely death" which would be
sure to happen somewhere along the next five decades. So, respectful
of myself for having made it this far, I decide to attend my own
funeral.
I have a hard time finding anything suitable to
wear. My one and only black pantyhose has a run and when I pull
it up, it barely
makes it as far as my hips.
I couldn't possibly have gained weight, I'm on Atkins!
Assured that nylon, too, could shrink, I decide
to wear the thing but to remember and take smaller steps.
My husband's single solid black tie, from London's
Cecil Gee - and dating back to the seventies - forms a tiny knot
under his
Adam's apple making him look like an item from my old family
album. I tell the kids they don't have to attend because a funeral
isn't
suitable for young people. Besides, I don't think I could bear
to see them cry.
The place looks more like a school; there's a flag
above the podium. It could also be the reception hall of a funeral
home, but with
no other signs and so many people around, I can't tell.
I'm pleased
to see how many have come. Family, friends, people I had not
seen for a long time - including those who I had thought
hated me - and quite a few strangers. I am overjoyed to see
how they all look sad. There's this woman who never gave me her
recipe
for dolmeh and swore her nose was naturally small. She sobs
as if I'm her long lost sister - though she often forgot to invite
me to her children's weddings.
The mounds of flowers look so familiar, I wonder
if they are done by the same person who does all the major Iranian
events in our
town. She has a knack for making every event look like the next.
In fact, I notice how my funeral's white flowers could easily
be used for the next wedding.
In the background, a man -- a tape?
-- recites the latest rhymed version of a translated Koran. It
doesn't sound funerally correct.
I think
perhaps the choice is my husband's final attempt to show me
he does appreciate poetry. I am touched, though I still don't care
for the translation. I mean, Koran is all foreign to me anyway,
but at least the Arabic version stirs some childhood memories.
Why ruin it with Persian lyrics which make it neither here
nor
there.
A woman, who had flirted with my husband on more
than one occasion, puts her arms around him and cries, "I
am so sorry!"
Oh I bet she is.
The crowd is asked to be seated. My husband and
I for once take the center front seats. A man in a black suit,
whom I don't know,
asks for a moment of silence. Now, with death to my advantage,
I am able to hear people's thoughts, so for me the noise rises
even higher, making it hard to concentrate and pay my respects.
The man who's timing us is wondering if his watch
is in need of a repair while the woman standing next to him worries
that crying
will make her mascara run. Quite a few people are unanimously
thanking God for the fact that it is my funeral and not theirs.
My husband,
whose back at this point has had enough of the hard metal chair,
sadly wonders if he should have bought a new tie for the occasion.
After that the speakers come on board. This is my
favorite part, the part I have actually come for, when I can sit
back and enjoy
an abundance of complements. My best friend, Pari, would have
been my first choice, but she is crying so hard, she can't utter
a word
and would do a lousy job of it. Someone needs to distract her,
take her shopping, or at least offer her a box of tissue before
she drowns in her ocean of tears. They have selected one of my
husband's friends - a man who barely knew me - to give the eulogy.
Knowing him to be a great speaker, I forgive them.
He begins by words of comfort from the entire Iranian
community to my husband and family and proceeds to speak of my
grandeur.
He states the fact that the Iranian/American community -- indeed
Iranians around the world -- would not have achieved as much
if it weren't for my ten articles in publications, which may
be unknown for now, but soon will be sure to capture the world's
attention.
He states this with such conviction I begin to wonder if I should
have been paid for those. He even goes as far as declaring the
damnation of the judges of the Pulitzer Prize for their failure
to grant me what had been my birth right.
Good choice of speaker.
I doubt Pari would have remembered the Pulitzer bit.
The next speaker is my sister, who sobs amid recollections
of our childhood memories. I appreciate the fact that she has traveled
so far to be here, knowing that -- like many others -- she could
have sent mountains of flowers at a fraction of the cost. I just
wish she would stop mentioning our ages and that she had something
new to say, something about the "me" who has just died
and not the insignificant kid of long ago. After the first twenty-five minutes, my novelty
has worn off. We have more than established the fact that humanity
has just received
its biggest blow, that the world would never be the same without
me. We imagine how, for the rest of our times, we shall wake
up every morning, and think of nothing but the gap I have left
behind.
Enough already, where's the food?
The buffet looks mouth-watering. Not just halva
-- though there is a lot of that in all shades of brown made by
different friends
-- but an array of delicacies. This indeed is the pride of
Persia, considering that Salad Olivier and Ratatoille have also
applied
for Iranian citizenship. I don't know about others, but I have
yet to see a better spread at a funeral.
People are now happier; a few even laugh as they
exchange humor. As someone who knew how much the deceased worshipped
food, humor,
and the combination there of, this is the best tribute they could
have paid her.
I take a large plate and the napkin rolled around
a couple of eating utensils.
May she rest in peace, I'm starved.
Author
Zohreh Khazai Ghahremani is a freelance
writer,
poet and artist. She lives in San Diego, California.
Comedy & Satire in
San Jose on February 27 >>> Details
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