Piano, Taxes, and a Life Insurance Policy: A Funeral Farce

I swear I almost fainted when she pointed her shaking finger right at poor Michael’s closed casket.

“That damn piano!” she screeched, and the smell of lilies suddenly felt suffocating, cloying, like death itself. Everyone turned to stare, mouths agape; my mother started sobbing, clutching my arm so tight I thought my bones would break.

It was the old Steinway in the parlor — Michael loved it, tinkled on it every chance he got, even though he was terrible, absolutely tone-deaf. He and Aunt Mildred had been fighting about it for years, apparently; she wanted to sell it, he refused. “It’s my family history!” he’d shout.

But then she revealed he hadn’t been paying the property taxes on it, and the bank was preparing to repo it next week…

And that’s when my cousin James screamed, “He took out a *life insurance policy* on the piano!”

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**BODY CONTINUED**

The church erupted. Whispers, gasps, and the rustle of uncomfortable shuffling filled the air. The priest, a kind man with a perpetually worried expression, awkwardly cleared his throat, but Aunt Mildred was already on a roll.

“The nerve! The utter audacity!” she shrieked, her face contorted with a mixture of rage and something that looked suspiciously like triumph. “He was obsessed! That useless thing! He was going to leave me with nothing!”

My mother, amidst her tears, managed a choked, “Mildred, please… not now…”

The truth, though, hung heavy in the air. Michael, my beloved, slightly inept brother, had indeed been a man of secrets. He’d always been a bit… quirky. His love for that piano, his refusal to let it go – it all seemed to make sense now, in a horrifying, twisted way.

James, ever the pragmatist, quickly added, “The policy was substantial. Enough to cover the taxes… and then some. Maybe there’s a clause about bequeathing to his family if he does first.”

The lawyer, who had been conveniently present, because, well, everyone was starting to think this funeral might be a prearranged meeting of the wills-of- the-family, stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. He informed the assembled family that the piano was indeed a major part of his assets.

Over the next few days, the chaos continued. Arguments erupted about what to do with the insurance money. Aunt Mildred, naturally, wanted it. My mother, after a brief period of mourning, seemed to want it too, seeing it as a way to honor her son’s memory. James, ever practical, urged caution, suggesting an investigation.

And so, the funeral turned into a family feud. Finally, the lawyer, after a week of legal wrangling, revealed the final details. Yes, Michael had taken out a policy. Yes, the piano was insured. But the beneficiary was… a local music school. The policy was to be used to provide music lessons to underprivileged children, in Michael’s name.

In the end, Aunt Mildred got nothing. The piano, rescued from the bank, was gifted to the school. The insurance money went towards the scholarships. My family, after a long and strained period of conflict, was left with a shared grief, and an understanding that despite his eccentricities, Michael, in his own clumsy way, had found a way to make a difference. The final irony? The music school’s first recital, held six months later, featured a student playing a hauntingly beautiful piece on a beautifully restored Steinway. It sounded, my mother and I agreed tearfully, exactly like the music Michael always tried to play. Even Aunt Mildred had to admit it was a lovely sound, and in that small moment of shared admiration, we had moved on.