Instructions for my funeral

A poem by Scott McConnaha

Don’t dress me up
in one of my old suits.
That was a pretend me,
the one who strove too hard
and for too long
to fulfill others’ expectations.
I’ve said enough that it should
be understood, I want to be laid out
in my coveralls.

And please don’t clean them first,
as the stains recall teaching my boys
how to change their own oil
and that one time, laughable now,
when I mistakenly drained
the transmission fluid
and had to own a mistake.

And have my whole lid open,
not just the top half.
People should see the worn faded knees
that reveal so many times
kneeling in the dirt struggling
to start the goddamn chainsaw
that worked perfectly the day before.
Those who know
will nod and smile.

And as loved ones approach
I want them to smell
the smoke from our fires
by the pond where we drank beer
and watched our kids play hockey
and yelled excitedly
when they finally figured out
how to skate backwards.
Those were our best Sundays.

This isn’t for me, of course.
God knows no ritual of yours
will change my status.
I do this for you.
Laugh, shake your head
at all the remember-whens.
It’s what I’d do at yours.

Lastly, ask the funeral director
for the coveralls before
he rolls me into the furnace.
They still have some life
left in them.