My sister stares at me from outside glass casket, ostentatious tears splashing noisily down her face. “I miss you, meerkat,“she whispers, then throws herself onto my casket, smudging the crystal clear glass seperating me from the earthly world. “How can I live without you?” She wails.

I cringe inside my mind, even though I know my pale face doesn’t flinch. Why is she embarassing me like this? I lived quietly, somberly, a grey, still figure hunching in the background of a colorful painting. Even my death was quiet, a gentle slipping from the earth, gradually disentegrating until I slept. And then I wake up to this? Does no one pay my wishes any heed?

My mother unpeels my screeching sister of my coffin, then presses her fingertips lightly to the glass, a silent goodbye. Our eyes lock, and she gives me a tiny nod, a yes and an alright.

My father’s face does not appear. I imagine is sitting in the front row, checking his silver watch, counting the minutes until he can leave.

Faces float above me, some that I know and others I wish I learned the names of, all kissing their pinkies and pressing them to the glass. Goodbye, it is supposed to mean, see you later.

I want to call out to them. Don’t you understand! We will not shake hands with each other again: for I am alive, but you do not see.

Then I am alone, as hushed footsteps pad to their seats and solemn hyms ricochet in my ears. Someone speaks. About how death is not “farewell forever” but “farewell for a bit.” I want to scream.

There is quiet, meaningless chatter. Endless condolences. There is another soft herd of feet tumbling out the door, and then only my mother, father, and sister’s figures loom outside of my coffin. My father unfolds a heavy black blanket.

I scream

I screech

I wail

I cry

I beg

and he drapes it around me,

engulfing my world in an endless black I cannot conquer.