The Funeral

I passed by a funeral.
A throng of people were gathered in the yard.
The room at the front of the house,
accomodated the deceased and a few people,
probably members of the family.
A thick smell hung in the air,
the smell of death.
I watched the faces of the people,
all stressed out,
and the marks of terror or horror
deeply imprinted on them.
Some tears rolled down.
I wondered who would be the ones
to grieve at my funeral.
The father, mother, brothers and sister.
Those who I really mattered for them.
The rest, maybe, will cry also.
Tears of relief?
Tears of joy?
Tears for fear of their own death?
Tears to contribute some more tears to pour on my tomb?
I approached the room,
a deathly atmosphere reigned.
Some muffled sobs,
hushed whispers.
I could gather that the person died of an asthma attack.
I observed her face
as indeed, it was a girl.
She looked so fresh and young
yet her skin so deathly pale.
Her hair was spead on the blanket underneath her.
She could have been sleeping.
There was a special glow about her,
she looked so much like me.
Was I attending my OWN funeral?