I Almost Lived
by
Cristina Jill Mosqueda
I died without ever having lived. My funeral was a simple affair, with a half dozen paid mourners, who periodically wailed, as if genuinely bereaved. After the service, there was no reception, and not one soul bothered to send flowers, as it would have seemed imprudent, to spend hard earned money, on flowers, in the middle of winter, when there was no family around to take notice that they had been sent. The only pageantry, to mark the occasion, was a two-paragraph obituary, carried in my hometown paper. I had once written an unimportant book of poems, which for some unknown reason, managed to capture the attention of a handful of critics, for about six-weeks.
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