Dying with a touch of class - a short story written by Berni Albrighton

 

                                                        

I’ve told my husband to cremate me in my Chanel suit

I want to look half decent when I get to the gates of heaven.

Isn’t that a waste of a good suit, and is anyone going to care what you’re  wearing?

What a ridiculous question.

Of course people will care, 

HE will care. 

He’ll see that I’ve done something with my life.

I’ve gone out there, I have made money.

Ah, so you sound as if you are saying that money makes you a better person?

Is that it?

Well, if someone had a choice of having coffee and cake with me, or with that homeless looking person over there, there’s no choice is there?

I mean, what's the point in even discussing it.

So having money will give you the golden ticket will it?

Are you even a believer? 

Do you pray? 

Do you talk to your God?

Now you’re being pernickety.

It’s just when you reach my age you start thinking about these things. 

What about this guy walking towards us? Would he be judged for what he is wearing? 

What, the Lucky Lucky guy?

Good god, I wouldn't have put his clothes on our Guy Fawkes when the children were small.

Guy Fawkes?

Yes, the dummy thing that the children made and then threw on the bonfire.

Don’t tell me you were too poor to celebrate fireworks night.

We had Guy Fawkes.

Does the fact I grew up in a council house make you better than me?

Well, we’re friends aren’t we?

That doesn’t answer my question.

I know you, it’s difficult for me to answer that question.

What I am saying is that well,  I can die in style. Have a nice coffin for example.

And? If a tramp was cremated at the same place, on the same day, you would both go into the same furnace. If he got burned before you they might scrape some of his ashes in with yours. 

What a terrible thought. Why think about something like that?

It was the same in the prisoner of war camps.Once everyone was stripped of their belongings no one would know who was the Professor, the Doctor, the street cleaner, the beggar. Everyone looked the same. 

This conversation is going too far. 

Probably, but it’s an interesting one to have.

Okay Mrs. Philosophical, what's your take on it then? 

I believe death is a great leveler. We return to the earth and the air when our ashes are scattered. Everyone's ashes are dark and dull, a result of the same action.

They don’t come out a rich gold colour because you have more money than someone else.  

If there was a God whose judgement of people relied on looks and wealth, then religion would be farcical.

I’m bored now. Let’s talk about something else. 

Another coffee? 

Waiter, darling. Otro café con leche, dos. There’s a sweetie.