Tomorrow I am going to a funeral. The death has not happened yet, and it remains to be seen whether it will be ruled as death by their own hands or by my hands.
Will they leap onto the blades of the scissors on their own, in an effort to end their misery? Or will they rail against their imminent demise, the instinct to live overruling what they know is the truth...that they are pathetic and not even fit for yard work anymore.
The friends I will be memorializing are loyal. They're always there, waiting to be of service. They've survived being chewed on by my dog, they no longer feel springy, and they're currently sporting dribbles of Mod Podge...and yet they still are proud when I reach out for them.
The service will be held at Bronx Diba, a shoe store in the St. Louis area. Any sympathy cards and casseroles will be gratefully accepted as I try to cope during this period of mourning.
(Sob.)
(Sniff.)
