By: Amy Ball
I know the song I want blasted at my funeral: The Party by Regina Spekter. I want everyone to make the trumpet sounds at the end in a raucous chorus—maybe with kazoos and confetti poppers too. I told this to my mom. She didn’t think it was morbid. We just played it in the living room and danced, while I belted out the lyrics: You leave such a mess, but you’re so fun!
That got an eye roll.
“Thanks for dancing at my funeral, Mom.”
“Just this once, girl.” She moonwalks to the kitchen, waggling her finger at me.