Mr. Fox had an acute heart attack on his way to the park. He collapsed.
When he came to, he found himself floating in the middle of the air, overlooking the park he was once and still so familiar with. Next to him was Death, himself, in a black cloak with a hood.
Just like what they said.
“Am I dead?” cried Mr. Fox.
“Yes, you are,” Death shrugged and replied. “But don’t be too upset. You were a good man when you were alive, so you are going to the good place. Also, you’re allowed to attend your own funeral before departing from this world.”
“I guess that's very nice?”
“Yes. This is the special treatment for good people like you. Your neighbor that died a month ago — she didn't get to do that.”
“The poor Sister Rabbit?”
“That would be her. Poor would probably be a fitting description now.”
Fox and Death arrived at his memorial service. It was naturally held at the church he started going to since he was three.
“What do you think people think of you, Mr. Fox?”
Fox, still, understandably, in profound disbelief and sorrow, took a look at the crowd from afar and mulled for a while. “I think I’m pretty well-liked. I am not the most successful… or anywhere close, but I am always humble and kind to others. Oh, that sounds terrible. If I were not dead, I would never praise myself like that!”
“So… people respect you then?” asked Death.
“I would think so. I worked hard although I never told others about that much. When I was not in my studio, I tried to take care of our community, watering plants and cleaning the common area when nobody was paying attention.”
"You're an artist?"
"I won't go that far... never sold a piece, to be honest. I drew illustrations for children's books and got by. I wouldn't call myself an artist then, but kids seemed to like my work. Ah, I also teach, sorry, taught kids in our neighborhood how to draw. They were free lessons but that made me happy. I would take them out to draw in the park. That’s actually where I was going when I… Oh, I’m going to miss that dearly.”
“I see…” Death got quiet and then pointed to Fox’s grave, “That's where you would rest, my friend.”
The service was soon nearing the end. As Mama Fox was sobbing near the casket, the neighbors lined up to offer her comfort. Some of them then started crying with her.
Fox wiped the tears off of his face and thanked Death. “Thank you, Mr. Death. I guess you were right — attending my own funeral really was a privilege. Getting so much love makes this a lot better.”
Death shook his head and pointed to the funeral again.
“Listen closely.”
Fox was puzzled, but he wouldn’t doubt Death; he moved closer and started listening to what everyone was saying.
“Oh, I feel so horrible for Mama Fox. He didn't give her a grandchild. Now she’s going to be by herself for the rest of her life. What a poor lady!”
“He didn't do anything for the family. Couldn’t hold a job. Was always roaming in the neighborhood doing nothing. I would always just avoid him.”
“Indeed, I always found him quite creepy. The Fox family used to be so great and now it all ended with him. What a disgrace!”
“He was penniless and had no ambition. My husband was so kind that he wanted to give him a job at his grocery store. He turned it down, saying doodling was his job. That's too funny. Must be thinking he's some kind of an artist.”
“He didn't have friends... and that’s why he was always with kids. What a loser. I didn’t allow my daughter to go to his class. God knows what he could do to those poor babies.”
“Look how few people are here. What a sad turnout! I’m only here to support Mama Fox. Remember Sister Rabbit's service last month? What a kind and respectable lady. I miss her so much.”
"Mrs. Rabbit was so lovely. She was a real art collector. Such great taste in everything."
“Also the kindest soul. Remember how she used to organize the annual benefit? She did so much for our community.”
"I hope she's having her favorite French wine in heaven."
Fox switched from one group to another until he could no longer bear it. Everyone was saying the exact same thing that he was a sad pathetic failure.
“Oh God,” Fox burst out crying. “Can we go now, please? I’m so heartbroken.”
“Yes, Mr. Fox,” Death answered gently. “It’s really hard to tell which is worse — being dead to know what people truly think of you or being alive to be fooled. But, I guess, sometimes it doesn’t matter that much.”
Fox went into dismay. He's devastated and ashamed.
“But I want to tell you something, my friend. That will cheer you up,” Death paused for a quick second and continued. “In 30 years, a kid from your drawing class would grow up to become the most influential art dealer of his time and your art would be reintroduced to the world. In 50 years, you would be recognized and remembered as one of the greatest artists in history. Your name would be up there with, your hero, Mr. Van Gogh, who you’d meet later. I hope you like scrabbles, by the way.”
You may find the utmost disappointment and betrayal in learning what others think of you.
But the good news is — that never matters.