Tequila/Monk

Attended my own funeral

March 21, 2016

I don’t know how your evening went, but I just woke up from attending my own funeral. To say that this puts me in a weird mood is a major understatement.

I’m not going to write all of the details here because I’m 99.9% sure I won’t forget them any time soon. I just want to note that it started with a friend named Pat, who I met in the late 1990s. He was a really nice guy, but our friendship more or less ended when I started a business, and thanks to my business partner there were some misunderstandings with Pat.

(In retrospect I could have handled this better, such as keeping Pat away from the business, or getting the truth out of my business partner before the meetings. My business partner could be very rough around the edges, and also very direct, so you would assume he was very confident, but as I would learn later, he was extremely insecure, and in a way he took this insecurity out on my relationship with Pat. He would later repeat the same behavior with a man named Dan who I thought would be a good guy to work with.)

But Pat’s a good guy, and when he showed up in this dream, I asked, “Pat, what are you doing here? Gosh, I haven’t seen you in a long time. How are you?” He wouldn’t answer, but he kept saying things like, “Do you remember the time ...”

Pat hung around with me for a long time as an ongoing stream of visitors came in and out, and it was like some sort of “This Is (Was) Your Life” episode, as people kept coming in to say goodbye. The place I was in seemed like some sort of sterile workplace, but the people who kept coming in weren’t work-related. In fact, because of the setting, I expected to see some people I was friends with when I was alive (some former clients), but they never showed up. I kept waiting for them to come in, but they never did.

One kind of loud woman surprised me. She came in the door, thanked me for being at someone else’s funeral last year, hugged me, and ran out crying. I only met her a couple of times, I never would have expected her to be here.

Finally Pat stepped outside, and I “knew” that I was supposed to gather up my belongings and leave.

As I was packing things into boxes, a young woman sat on a desk, strumming a guitar, and singing quietly, softly. And then the last person to come in was a niece named Mercedes. As she walked up to me she set a colorful letter down on a table, and I could read the beginning of it. It said, “Thank you for helping me when ...,” and I thought, “No, thank you for helping me ‘when.’” As she set the letter down and walked up to hug me, I knew I was going to start to cry, and I woke up.

The only good news is that Mercedes was wearing a bright spring or summer dress, so I probably won’t be dying today ... though Easter is in about six days.

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