And it's goodbye from her

Tell the mourners not to wear black
except for Gemma, who God willing I shall outlive, and on who it always
did look chic.
But if black is worn, let it not be for grief
but as a fashion statment
and with a scarlet bow.

Tell the mourners not to buy expensive flowers from a florist, twisting
them unnaturally into wreaths, or worse, lining them up to form my
name. A simple lily will suffice. Then if you must,
pick all the rest
from a wild meadow.

Tell the mourners not to sing redemption hymns. Instead an aria from an
opera or a ballad from a West End Show.
Then afterwards, in the darkness,
watch the western sky and if you should see a shooting star you will
know, I am singing in the Heavens, weep then,
and let me go.