At your funeral—held like those of the kings of old, your pyre signaling only the absence of a body—I wore my bluest dress and wondered if there really was a world beyond. There was a feeling of bacchanalia in the room, your worshippers mentally popping champagne corks and dancing in frenzies. It seemed possible to see a kind of heaven in their stares, a cruel human dream of heaven. And I did not forgive you.
