Final Word

Final Word

The corpse cleared its throat during the invocation. The pastor faltered mid-sentence. The congregation froze into silence.

“Pardon me,” the deceased intoned with grave courtesy. “I wish to speak.”

The funeral director hastily consulted his manual. Chapter Seventeen catalogued disturbances—wailing children, swooning relatives, tardy mourners. Nothing on articulate cadavers.

“Sir,” the director murmured, trembling. “You are deceased.”

“Precisely,” the corpse replied. “Which is why I alone should deliver my eulogy. Who could testify more faithfully to my life?”

The pastor sought guidance from the front pew. The widow only shrugged. She had endured his timing for thirty-seven years; it remained abysmal.

“The microphone,” the corpse requested.

It was passed forward. He clasped it with surprising grace, his grasp steady despite rigor mortis.

“Thank you for assembling,” he began. “I understand the irregularity. Yet the appointed speakers are inadequate.”

The nephew slated to speak flushed with indignation. The corpse noticed.

“Do not take offense, Timothy. You visited me twice, both occasions devoted to questions about my will.”

Timothy slid downward in his seat. His wife jabbed him in the ribs.

“My brother follows on the program,” the corpse continued. “He intends to extol my virtues. He still owes me three thousand dollars. His testimony is compromised.”

The brother coughed into his fist. Death had not blunted the deceased’s candor.

“I lived seventy-three years. I paid my taxes. I trimmed my hedges. I cast ballots in municipal elections. These banalities may appear meager, yet they required constancy.”

The congregation murmured assent. Civic duty deserved remembrance.

“I collected stamps for four decades. People derided the pastime, urging more vigorous pursuits. But stamps cultivated patience, geography, history. Small devotions sustain long lives.”

A child in the back tugged at her mother’s sleeve, whispering if stamps could really keep a man alive so long. 

Several heads nodded. They too accumulated things—coins, volumes, grievances.

“I erred. I missed anniversaries. I spoke over others. I belittled my wife’s cooking though my own skills were paltry. These failings require mention.”

The widow smiled faintly. Apologies had eluded him in life.

“Yet I made efforts. I appeared when asked. I listened, sporadically but sincerely. I aided neighbors now and then. I fed stray cats. I returned shopping carts to their pens.”

The audience warmed. Character lay in such humble rituals.

“Death clarifies,” the corpse observed. “Priorities crystallize. Trivialities evaporate. The essential remains.”

He paused with practiced gravitas. Public speaking had never daunted him.

“Love matters. Kindness matters. Attention matters. The remainder is noise and obligation.”

The funeral director checked his watch. The service schedule had collapsed. Another cortege waited impatiently outside.

“I shall conclude,” the corpse declared. “Thank you for gathering. Thank you for remembering. Thank you for continuing.”

He relinquished the microphone. His arm moved stiff but resolute.

“Now proceed with the interment. I am entirely finished.”

He reclined once more. Eyes sealed. Hands folded. Visage serene.

The pastor resumed the rite. Prayers intoned. Earth lowered. Ceremony restored.

Yet consensus spread afterward: it was the finest eulogy they had ever heard.