What I Hope They Say

The casket stood open.

A gaping hole at the front of the room,

Begging us to peek in,

Daring us to edge closer.

The pastor stood and read the letters.

A wrinkled handful of goodbyes.

And on nearly every page the same word was written,

By daughters, granddaughters, and friends.

Stubborn. 

And everybody laughed.

Like eighty four years of stubbornness didn't matter.

Like it hadn't made them cry,

Run away,

Get pregnant.

Like it hadn't blasted a family to smithereens.

But I knew,

That sometimes fragile laughter is a thin veil,

Barely muffling the howls of pain. 

I walked away with an ache in my chest.

Hoping, praying, that the word "stubborn" will not be used

Over and over and over again

When I'm the one being spoken of

In the past tense.

I hope they say,

She smiled a lot.

She laughed too loud.

She always noticed the sunset.

She allowed the hard things to make her softer.

She walked brave in the face of fear.

She never gave up on people.

She loved Jesus.

She held her family close.

And if this is what I hope they say,

I will try to live like this.

Today.