It was my living funeral. Family, friends, and eyes I was not familiar with, all gathered on a single occasion, in a single area, for a single purpose.

For I would be dying soon.

I laid out in a coffin. Everyone laughed and smiled, guffawed their guffaws while spilling cheap wine on their rented suits and tuxedos.

There was a dinner. Cold out of the oven. There were speeches, some tearful, some humorous, all just vindications for my still life, brushstrokes and the scent of melting wax with each breath that made the candlelights dance.

And it would have all been quite poignant.

Except when they shut the coffin lid and buried me.

They still smiled and guffawed and spilled wine. But at least they took their suits off.