She sat down at her desk and began writing what was to be her own eulogy. The words flowed out of her like a popped can of soda that had been shaken up, and when she was done, she read over it twice to ensure her tenses were in order- it would be embarrassing if they weren’t. Then she folded it neatly, three vertical lines of fold, and tucked it into the plain white envelope with its blue and white squiggled-for-safety interior. She ran her tongue along the sides and sealed it shut pressing it down and applying some pressure for smoothness. Then she turned it over and stared at the startling white rectangle. What to write? How does one label one’s own eulogy?
She glanced at the clock, as if time were of any factor to her, then peaked out the window, as if the weather were at all relevant. She started memorizing items on the floor and repeating their order to herself, as if she would later be quizzed. Left sleeve of pink hooded sweatshirt atop inside out bleach-stained gray sweatpants over blue sock with those little slip-resistant treads on the bottom next to jeans with the difficult zipper slung over the thin brown belt. None of this mattered. She was just procrastinating, and she hated procrastinating because it made her feel weak.
She closed her eyes so she would not be distracted, but then her ears turned on and began listening to sounds distant and near, actual and otherwise. She heard hums and purrs and constant drones, as well as irregular shifts and changes. It was like a concert of broken quiet all around her, all her own, all for her. She cocked her head forward, bringing her chin to her chest and tried to listen even closer before the rest of her had a chance to ruin that moment for her too.