For every wake I've attended, I found a collage of the deceased's photos proudly displayed by the casket. They got me thinking of what my highlight still-frames would be, what it would take for a new photo to muscle out some of my existing lineup.
Over the weekend, I took a picture that will display at my funeral. It will find its place alongside a shot of me free-falling and posing as a prima donna. If the curators I leave behind decide on chronological order, it will follow me sitting fireside by a snowbank, drink in hand, smiling to someone offscreen.
I gauge a picture’s candidacy by likes on social media. To have potential, a picture needs 30 affirmations from my circle of friends. Over 50, and the image may as well be gold bordered with the words “In loving memory of,” hanging overhead.
General photos, I prepare for. I round my eyes out to avoid them looking beady. I hug my top lip to my tooth line to hide my deep set gums. These precautions help in looking satisfactory. Funeral photos, however, abide by a contrary set of principles. Those times, the wind seems to move a certain speed, or the sun seems to hit a certain angle, because my eyes never look how I want them to. My mouth, too, misses cues; a half inch or more of pink membrane shows along my lip, emphasizing my crooked teeth. In fact, the picture from the weekend - my most well received photo, and therefore, my most funeral worthy - shows me with my eyes shut and my lips pulled up to a pencil line. Though I try to prevent this version of myself for the camera, this eye squinting, gum showing character will be my epitaph.
