It wasn’t the urn or the simplicity of the flowers that struck Maggie. What it was, was the music. The music was playing over the loud speaker, the celebrant-undertaker entered, and he seemed to find the music both entertaining and appropriate:
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones,
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones,
Now shake dem skeleton bones!
“Join in!” shouted the celebrant to the tiny group of mourners. He grabbed the urn, held it to his breast, and began dancing with it.
The knee bone's connected to the thigh bone,
The thigh bone's connected to the hip bone,
Now shake dem skeleton bones!
The next thing the horrible man did was to take Maggie’s carefully arranged flowers, and dancing among the few mourners, began plucking off the flower petals and scattering them over the paltry congregation like it was confetti.
The hand bone's connected to the arm bone,
The arm bone's connected to the shoulder bone,
Now shake dem skeleton bones!
The song ended. The dancing finished. The exhausted celebrant returned to his chair and sat. “Phew!” he said. “So what did you think of that Maggie?”
“I thought it was pathetic,” said Maggie. “After forty-two years of stultifying marriage and that’s all you can do to celebrate his passing. It was pitiful. I didn’t put up with him all those years just for that. I’ve a good mind not to pay you.”
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