I was not the average eight year old who loved Barbie, and her dream house, instead I was fascinated with ghost stories, the supernatural and eerie occurrences. I can still remember lounging with my friends on the linoleum floor of my paneled basement attempting a senance.

Then as casually as they'd ask for potato chip, soda or M&M's someone would inevitably seize the opportunity to pry into our adolescent minds. Surely, every child had something private that needed to be revealed, sworn to secrecy, and taken to the grave.

The most common questions asked were. "What do you want to be when you grow up? " "How many kids do you want to have have?" and "When will I fall in love?"

My friends would prattle on about becoming as famous as Cher, rich as Rockefeller or marrying Nicki Scarvo the cutest boy in our class. And of course superficially, I desired those normal things , yet there was a part of me that yearned for the answer to a mysterious question.

Due to morbid content, and fearing they'd disown me as a friend, I' d remain tight lipped, terrified to reveal the one question that consumed me for days on end. Who will come to my funeral?

Great Grandma Micallina had recently passed away and as far as I could remember, she had always been frail, sickly and tired. When she died, it seemed the most natural thing that should happen to her, because she was 99. This lessened the fear of dying for me , because it appeared to be the luxurious rest life had to offer someone like her.

The funeral was the first I'd attended and immediately made me acutely aware that my precious existence on earth was short, and one day would end. My interpretation of the funeral was that of staged theatrics. Great Grandma looked as if on display comfortable on her satin cushions, like one of the dolls on my bed. The overpowering smell of cut flowers in the room was one I will never forget, because it was her new dead smell now.

Great Grandma's hair was combed and set, she was wearing her eighteen karate Madonna charm , a new dress, and shoes. Some one had taken great care of her since she died, because she never looked this good alive. The dim lights gave the room an effect of tranquility and respect. The spotlight above the coffin was angled perfectly , making her look a bit younger in years. Her demure expression was not the usual one she wore in life, it was as if her half smile had a touch of embarrassment over the fuss everyone was making.

I instinctively knew this was Great Grandma's final act and there was no curtain call afterward for her, like when she'd bow after we'd compliment her lasagna before devouring it. I almost expected her to peek out of one eye or wave her thin fingers, giving me one last goodbye. Because she loved me best and knew how much I hated goodbyes. She wouldn't have wanted me to be glum.

Sitting there watching the mourners kneel and made me wonder, "Who will attend my funeral?"
"Who will choose my dress, and style my hair?'
"Who will wail dramatically and weep ?'
"Who will send a bouquet of my favorite amber colored roses, making that smell mine?" These questions frustrated my tiny brain and inevitably led me to the other fascinating, disturbing , and troublesome question.
"How will I die?"