She
cringed when she sat at the table.
The
wake will be two to eight,
The
flowers will arrive at noon,
Do
you want a traditional funereal,
The
undertaker calmly waited.
As
she thought about what he would say;
"I
wouldn’t be caught dead in a tie."
Then
what shall he wear,
A
suit coat,
A
pocket watch? Cuff links made of gold,
Pressed
slacks the leg crease equally matched,
White
dress shirt hiding his tattoos,
A thin striped tie,
His
long curls cut and facial hair trimmed,
No
diamonds in one ear.
"I
think not," she said.
The
pockets will be frayed on an old pair of jeans,
The
belt loops tattered and torn,
His
chap's worn season's past,
The
vest with a three piece patch,
Two
diamonds in one ear,
His
Rolex watch he will wear along with his wedding band and cross,
He
will be comfortable in a Harley Davidson T-shirt,
His
tattoos will show with pride,
His
mustache and beard suited him just fine along with his long blond hair,
Love
letters in the pocket of a short leather jacket.
Regardless
of the traditional burials in the past, she had him placed in a soft leather coffin,
Eyes
closed, his hands resting on his chest,
One
more thing she remembered before she closed the lid, his words upon his death
bed;
“Don’t
bury me without my boots on, I can’t ride without them and how can I come back
and get you when someone else needs to dress you.”
