I Crash Funerals for a Living

John Ray Bantasan

Some people crash weddings; I crash funerals for a living. I waste cigarette butts like bat droppings—call me Dr. Litterbug. Do not judge me; I am the blackened eyes of a bereaved mother whose son unlearned the primitivity of his liver. Too young, says the brother. Too less like me, says the father.

Do not judge me; I am the tears pouring out of a concubine, like urine after a night of booze and cheap nicotine. I honor the dead by not looking at her small bump, swollen like my envy for underground men and women. Sooner, the baby will outgrow the mother and I will undress my thick spleen. Until then, I will crash funerals for a living.

But do not judge me; I am your guest and I will mourn as guests should. I will smile like a wound, whimper like a wolf cub, and say your prayer as if it is my own.

So do not judge me; I am the receiving end of your many eulogies, for I know when it is my turn to lie alone, I shall be too dead to tell myself that I have been good, that I have known grief.

I am a eulogy thief and I crash funerals for a living.

Photo by: Geraldine Repollo