The pallbearers at my funeral stood beside the grave, as the mourners threw dirt onto my casket. The steam of people’s breaths rose upwards in the gloomy morning.
My mother looked on silent, holding back tears, dabbing the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief.
Dead at twenty-two. No apparent cause. I watched my family and friends give their condolences to my mother and grandfather, walk away from the grave and back to their cars.
Over 200 hits of acid since I turned nineteen. My first bad trip. I hovered over the scene, watching the cemetery workers close the cement vault.
Good Stuff, Manny.
A very relevant cautionary tale.