The Difference between the Dead and the Living

They were mourning his death. A great man, wonderful achiever in his own time. But he was a drinker, someone whispered. A shaking of heads, bearings held high. Eyes glazed over with a constipated look, as if someone just punched them hard in the groin. A tragedy. Another round of sighs. Someone coughed politely. The plastic sheets on the table flapped noisily. Overhead, the incessant whirling of fans and stark, stinging lights blazed, giving the parlour a sterile sheen. Not a speck out of place.

Silence. Then how is the family. How are you. How is my own success coming along, oh I can’t wait tell you about my new-

A plaintive wail surged through the sea of white.

Everyone was relieved by the interruption. One by one they queued up to pay their last respects to the deceased. Gestures were exchanged, tears formed the invisible thread that held the void deck in rapt. They passed his ashen face beneath the glass and sighed, letting their tears run dutifully.

And there he lay, motionless. Relieved of the obligation of putting one foot before the other, looking out for traffic, embracing a woman he no longer felt anything for. Around him, the commotion rose, as the pallbearers took their places. As the coverlet went down, you can almost imagine his half-smile.