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It must be our vanity that allows us such strange luxuries after death.
Like pharaohs in ancient Egypt, we dress in our finery,
Not gold and silver and linens, but suits and ties and makeup.
We do our best to look our best, or contain our excitement for the event
In urns most lavishly outfitted.
Yet six feet down, we wait for dirt to ruin our eternal jammies when it
Ruthlessly crushes the coffin in an attempt by our mother to remain a single entity; or
We sit patiently on a mantle or a buffet waiting for that careless moment
When our remains will be shamelessly called by gravity to grind rudely
Into the lovely fibers of the rug which sits below us.
What we fail to realize, I suppose, is that we are in fact dead.
We could be naked, we could be dressed in tutus, we could find a way to suspend our bodies from the highest building in the world for all to see,
But still we would not know it.
And from our vanity is born debt, which bears suffering and adds only to the
Constant grief of those who dress us up and say pretty things about us and
Hold a cocktail party after we are thrown into a hole and covered up by that which the Lord our God created us of.
Ashes to ashes indeed.