Kari's Funeral

Which brings me, I suppose, to the first time I ever met Kari.

    The first time I met her was at her funeral.
    I like funerals. I like to see what people say about a person as opposed to the way they actually live their life. Often, I’ll attend a funeral, and then go back through the life and see the discrepancies. They’re always there. Always. No one is honest at funeral, which is a real shame, because in my personal opinion, the only way to truly honor a person is to be honest. Tell the world exactly what type of person they were and leave it at that. It’s not speaking ill of the dead, or being disrespectful. It’s being honest, which is what every person should want.
    I think that if they were truly ashamed of the way they lived, the speaking would be a penance. They’d pay for it by listening to what others thought of them, hearing the truth, and being forced to face and accept it, and absolve it.
    If they weren’t ashamed, they’d revel in it and move on. Music to their ears, and a balm to their (ahem) soul, which is pretty much what every dead person wants, right?
    Not that I’d know. I’m just a vagrant spirit, and I’ve never seen an actual real ghost. If anyone would have, it would be me, and I never have.
    Anyway, gone off the rails again.
    Kari’s funeral.

    Kari’s funeral wasn’t particularly special or ornate, or anything like that. The pastor spoke for a bit, and then asked if there was anyone who wanted to say a few words. A number of hands were raised, and the first one called was a lady, not that old, who was twisting a handkerchief in her fingers, obviously nervous, but she started speaking through her tears.
    Because I’m a smartass cynical jerk, I’m going to omit all the sobs and sniffs and tears. Enotions are for fleshies, and I don’t have the patience to write it all down. I’m honestly surprised I’ve gotten this far.
    “Kari was my best friend,” she began. “I knew her since first grade. I had forgotten my lunch, and she was kind enough to give me half of her sandwich, half of her apple, and, most shockingly, half of her pudding cup. Just scooped up the top half, put it on the wax paper with her half of the sandwich and gave me the actual cup. And the spoon. She ate her half by bending the foil lid into a scoop and scooping it up.
    “That was Kari, though. She’d give you the hair off her head if you she though you needed it. And did. She regularly donated to Locks of Love.
    “I don’t want to take up the entire funeral talking. If you knew her, you know how good she was.”
    A pause. I moved in closer to her as she spoke, and looked her straight in the eyes. I was surprised to see