Muted Send Off

I float above my funeral, a silent observer of the final chapter of my earthly existence. The chapel is as dull and overcast as the sky outside, the air heavy with dust and stale floral arrangements. 

I drift aimlessly above among dust particles floating within the rays of sunlight streaming through random stained glass panes. The light fractures into vibrant colors, casting fleeting patterns on the worn wooden pews. These tiny specks of dust dance in the air, suspended in the delicate balance between light and shadow. 

I watch them swirl, finding intriguing beauty in their aimless journey, mirroring my existence. It's a moment of tranquility amidst the disinterest and apathy.

My eyes scan the faces of the attendees. My widow, dressed in obligatory black, fidgets with her phone, discreetly checking messages. My adult children, standing awkwardly at the back, exchange bored glances. Their irritation at having to be here is palpable. No one weeps, no one mourns. They are here out of a sense of duty, not grief.

I drift closer to a small group of acquaintances. They whisper about the latest political news and the weekend's championship game. There's a brief pause as one of them looks my way, almost sensing my presence, but then he shakes his head and returns to the conversation.

Moving on, I find another group. This group's discussions revolve around the weather and a new restaurant in town. One person in the group at his watch, stifling a yawn. The others nod absently, their minds clearly elsewhere.

My wife avoids eye contact with anyone. She's already planning her tasks for the rest of the day. Our children have left, muttering about the inconvenience and eager to return to their lives.

The preacher's voice drones on, a monotone recital of generic platitudes that fail to stir any emotion in the sparse congregation.

Their indifference doesn't surprise me; I knew this day would come. I wasn't the best son, brother, husband, or father. My life was a series of missed opportunities and years of overcompensating for people pleasing while attempting half-hearted pleas for meaningful connections. I had always been a ghost, even before I died.

I feel a strange relief. This is the end, the final act of a life that barely made a ripple. I breathe a ghostly sigh, the weight of unfulfilled potential lifting from my spectral shoulders.

The preacher closes his book, signaling the end of the ceremony. The attendees shuffle out, eager to return to their lives. There's no wake, no gathering to remember me. The chapel empties quickly, leaving only the faint echo of footsteps and the distant hum of traffic.

I float there for a moment, taking it all in. This is my legacy: a funeral where no one cared enough to cry, a life that ended with a whimper rather than a bang. And yet, in this final acceptance, there is a strange peace.
With one last look at the empty chapel, I let go. Once tethered to the indifference of the living, my spirit fades into the ether. Not even the chapel's wall can echo my last goodbye.

It's time to move on.