Ten years later, I wonder if he was telling me how to say goodbye. The last time I saw my little brother Ronnie alive, we sat in my family room drinking Labatts and somehow started talking about our funerals. Maybe it was because we were getting older and had reached that point when death stops being something that happens only to grandparents and people on the evening news.
Or maybe Ronnie knew something I didn’t. We agreed immediately on one thing: Neither of us wanted a traditional funeral. No somber room filled with flowers.
No people whispering around our bodies about how peaceful we looked. I told Ronnie I wanted a party. Tell funny stories about me.
If somebody had an embarrassing one, even better. Then he told me what he wanted. Soft pretzels, pizza and appetizers.
Basically, Ronnie wanted his funeral catered like a Saturday afternoon watching football. But then something changed. Just for a moment, Ronnie got serious.
I remember looking at him and thinking: Why does this suddenly feel like he’s giving me instructions? And then I let the thought go. Because when my brother walked down my driveway later that evening, climbed into his car and drove away, it would be the last time I ever saw him alive.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
