A pink coffin.
It was the last thing I expected to hear that morning. I was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping my coffee, trying to piece together my plans for the week when my phone rang. The caller ID flashed my mother’s name. I was immediately on alert. My mom only called me during the day if it was important—either something was wrong with her health, something was wrong with my dad, or, as often as I hated to think about it, something was wrong with Grandma.
“Hey, sweetie,” my mom’s voice came through the phone with a slight tremor, “we need to talk about Grandma.”
I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach, a familiar sense of dread. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing bad, but…well, Grandma wants to make some requests for her funeral, and I’m not sure what to do about it.”
I took a deep breath. My grandma—everyone called her Nana—had been in her 80s for several years now. She had always been stubborn, and while I loved her dearly, there was no denying that she was a woman who had an opinion about everything. From how the grass should be mowed to how the weather should be talked about (not to mention her thoughts on every political issue under the sun), Nana was vocal. She was also, despite her age, remarkably sharp, which made the news of her talking about her funeral all the more unsettling.
“What kind of requests?” I asked cautiously, already bracing myself.
A long pause. “She wants to be buried in a bright pink coffin.”
I stared at my phone, thinking I had misheard her. “Excuse me?”
“A bright pink coffin,” my mom repeated, her voice a bit more strained. “I’m not sure how to even begin explaining this to the funeral home. She’s insisting on it, and—well, it’s just so…out of nowhere.”
My thoughts were a jumble of confusion and surprise. Nana, with her love of floral print dresses and loud, colorful scarves, had always had a taste for bold fashion choices. But a bright pink coffin? It felt too much, even for her. “Why pink?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.
“She didn’t say why. Just that it’s her final wish. I think she feels like it’s something that would really represent her—bright, happy, and unapologetically her. You know how she is.”
I did know how she was. Nana was always the life of the party, the woman who showed up to family gatherings wearing something bright enough to blind you and a smile that could light up the room. But this was different. This was…forever. This was the kind of thing that you couldn’t take back.
“I don’t know what to do, sweetie. I’m afraid if we don’t do it, she’ll be upset. But pink? I just can’t… It feels so out of place,” my mom said, clearly at her wit’s end.
I could hear the exhaustion in her voice. The weight of dealing with Nana’s aging, her growing demands, and now this one final, monumental request had taken its toll.
“I’ll come by. We’ll talk to her about it,” I offered, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Maybe there’s a way we can compromise.”
When I arrived at Nana’s house, she was sitting in her usual chair by the window, wearing a soft pink cardigan with a floral scarf draped over her shoulders. She looked frail, but her eyes still held that spark—sharp, knowing, and full of mischief.
“Hey, kiddo,” she said, her voice as strong as ever, though it carried the slightest rasp.
“Hey, Nana,” I said, crossing the room to give her a quick hug. “How are you feeling today?”
“Better than I should, considering all this nonsense,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “But I’m not here to talk about my health, I’m here to talk about my funeral.”
I sat down across from her, the old armchair creaking beneath me. “Mom told me about the coffin,” I said gently. “A pink one?”
She nodded, the corners of her lips lifting in a smile that was half mischievous, half serious. “It’s the only way to go, darling. Bright pink. No other color will do. It’s bold, just like me.”
I swallowed hard. “But Nana, why pink? I get that you like bold colors, but…it just feels so…I don’t know, out there.”
She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she regarded me intently. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? You think I haven’t thought about this? This is who I am, kid. Bright, lively, and always full of life. I’ve spent my whole life wearing the brightest colors I could find, so when I go, I want people to know that I didn’t fade into some dull old thing. I didn’t sit in the corner and let life pass me by. I lived, and I lived loudly.”
I didn’t know how to respond. There was a part of me that understood what she was saying. Nana had always lived life with that fire. But the idea of a bright pink coffin—it just felt like too much. It felt like a joke, or maybe a protest against the inevitable.
“Nana,” I began, trying to find the right words, “don’t you think that maybe a bright pink coffin might upset people? I mean, it’s not…you know, traditional.”
She let out a short laugh, one that made her whole body shake. “Who said anything about tradition? I’ve never been one for tradition. I don’t care if it’s not traditional. I want it to be a celebration, not some somber, drab event. And if people can’t handle it, well, they can remember me in the way I want to be remembered.”
There it was again—the sharpness, the clarity of purpose that defined Nana. She wasn’t going to be swayed. I could already tell.
The next few days were a blur. I spent hours on the phone with my mom, the funeral home, and even a few friends trying to figure out how to handle this situation. It felt like there was a monumental decision to be made, one that went beyond just a coffin. It was about honoring Nana’s wishes, yes, but it was also about respecting her as a person—a woman who had always lived with the kind of freedom most people only dreamed of.
In the end, we did what Nana wanted. We found a funeral home that specialized in unconventional funerals, one that was willing to work with us on the bright pink coffin. It wasn’t exactly the most common request, but they assured us they could make it happen. And so, with much reluctance, we signed the papers.
Nana was pleased. The day after we confirmed the arrangement, she called me to tell me how excited she was. “You did it right,” she said, her voice filled with pride. “You’re going to make me proud, kiddo. People will talk about this for years.”
And they did. Nana’s funeral was, in every sense of the word, a celebration. People came from near and far, and though they were shocked at first by the vibrant pink coffin, they soon understood. It wasn’t about the color. It was about the woman who had lived boldly and unapologetically. It was about honoring a life lived without regret, without hesitation, and without fear.
When they lowered Nana into the ground, in that bright pink coffin, I didn’t feel sadness. Instead, I felt something I had never quite experienced before. It was like a wave of gratitude. I was grateful that I had known her, grateful that I had learned from her, and grateful that she had left behind a legacy of living fully, without restraint.
In that moment, I realized that the pink coffin wasn’t just her final wish. It was a reminder to all of us to live the way she had—to live boldly, fearlessly, and with love in our hearts. Nana was gone, but her spirit lived on, bright and uncontainable, just as she had wanted.
And in the end, I knew that sometimes, the most unexpected choices are the ones that matter the most.
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