Nobody likes caskets. They’re metal. Cold. Boxy. Final and they come in ugly colors. Yesterday I found myself face to face with a silver model, wrapped in cellophane, sitting quietly on the funeral home floor. I wondered who it belonged to. Whose unfortunate uncle had his named stamped on the velvet lining or was the coffin a warning: get your stuff together today cuz you’ll be here soon enough girlfriend. Nobody likes caskets, except funeral directors and the people who manufacture them. They shout at us without saying a word. They contain no holes, no windows. There is no escape. Once you’re in, you’re in for life (I mean death). My Uncle Claude keeps telling us that when he dies he wants us to bury him in a pine box. Bless his heart. I don’t want to think about how my remains will be housed. I’d rather focus on the good stuff like: Thanking the sunlight for reaching through my window Learning to cook the perfect ribeye Writing the type of book folks cuddle with at night, even when their spouse is hot and lying spread-eagle across the sheets Seeing that long, silver box didn’t scare me. It fired me up, made me want to run into the street knocking on car windows screaming “live now or die,” my hair screaming all over my head. Made me want to lay my grilled cheese sandwich on top of Aunt Ruth’s good china and eat til my belly bursts open. One day I will take my final rest in a casket the family has painstakingly selected. I hope they don’t spend too much time on this. Instead I’d like them to remember that February afternoon Aunt Gayle ran down Georgia Avenue scaring motorists with her blazing hair. Remember the poundcakes I made, butter crowning the tender crust. Nobody likes caskets and if we live right, nobody has to.