🔴 THEY’RE PLAYING OUR SONG AT THE FUNERAL HOME — BUT WHO REQUESTED IT?
I almost choked on the stale coffee when I heard the opening chords; “Forever and Always.”
Mom hated that song, said it was saccharine garbage, but Dad…Dad used to sing it to her tipsy on cheap wine during summer barbecues. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, like I was suffocating under a wool blanket.
“Did…did you request this, Aunt Carol?” I croaked, my voice trembling, but she just shook her head, eyes red and puffy. The melody swelled, painfully familiar, and I saw a flash of Dad’s goofy grin in my mind.
Then, the funeral director cleared his throat nervously and leaned in close. “Actually, Mrs. Davies,” he whispered, smelling faintly of mothballs and lilies, “It was… a standing order. From your father.” Before he died, apparently.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…
“…A standing order?” My voice was barely a whisper now, the words lodging in my throat alongside the unexpected emotion. The funeral director nodded solemnly.
“Yes, Mrs. Davies. A… a small addendum to his pre-arrangements. He left very specific instructions about this piece. Said it was non-negotiable, quote, ‘for Eleanor,’ unquote.” He gestured subtly towards my mother, who was now staring at the coffin, her face a mask of complicated grief. The music continued, a bittersweet wave washing over the hushed room.
I looked at Mom, really looked at her. Her lips were pressed tightly together, but there was a flicker in her eyes I hadn’t seen before – not just sorrow, but something akin to bewildered tenderness. She’d always complained about Dad’s poor taste, his corny jokes, his terrible singing of *that* song, but it was part of their story, wasn’t it? The saccharine garbage was *theirs*.
As the final notes faded, a profound silence fell. My mother turned slowly, meeting my gaze across the room. There was no anger, no complaint, just a shared understanding passing between us. Dad, even in death, was reminding Mom – and all of us – of the clumsy, enduring love that had been the awkward, beautiful soundtrack to their lives.
Later, standing by the grave, a soft breeze rustling through the trees, Mom leaned close. “He was a fool,” she murmured, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “A complete idiot. Asking for *that* song…” She paused, her eyes distant. “…He knew I hated it. He always did it just to make me laugh, or roll my eyes.” She sighed, a sound that held the weight of years. “Maybe… maybe he just wanted me to remember that.”
And in that moment, the song, no longer saccharine garbage but a final, loving tease from a man who knew his wife better than anyone, didn’t feel like a cruel joke. It felt like a final, imperfectly perfect love note played out loud, a reminder that even the most annoying habits can be wrapped up in a lifetime of affection. We buried Dad that day, not with tears of only sorrow, but with a quiet, shared understanding of the silly, deep love that had always been their song, whether Mom admitted it or not.