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My sister’s third funeral was mine. After a sleepless Christmas night, suffering from abdominal pain, I was rushed to the ER and admitted with acute appendicitis. I had to stay in the children’s ward for a week after the operation that day, and my only visitors were my parents. My sister didn’t believe my parents’ assurances that I was perfectly fine. She was convinced I was dead.
She decided to bury me in absentia. Toward this aim, she collected my gold-plated locket, my Barbie, my ceramic horse with its macrame bridle, my ballet shoes and tights, and a picture of our Uncle Bill, my godfather, sitting on a camel in Cairo. It was a solemn affair, attended by a large group of kids from the neighborhood. I was told that a number of Christmas carols were sung, as the words were familiar and close to mind. My sister dug a shallow hole with much trouble as the ground was frozen. My possessions were interred. A cross would be added after the spring thaw.
A few days later, to her amazement and possible disappointment, I came home. She quickly removed her things from my side of the bedroom and told me about my beautiful funeral. After I felt better, she helped me unbury my stuff. It was then that she stopped holding funerals. One occupation had been eliminated, but for her, and for me too, of course, there were endless possibilities ahead.
Suzanne C Martinez 