She wore one of her black Nordstrom suits. I wore Violet’s blue-red-yellow Mondrian dress that I’d found the day before in the wardrobe in the basement, along with her white go-go boots and navy-blue pillbox hat, all in attendance. My new sunflower earrings sparkled in my ears.

“I can’t believe you squeezed yourself into that old rag,” Mom said.

Despite Bram’s bagel deliveries, I’d lost a few pounds. I kept forgetting to eat. Also, as it turned out, cleaning counted as exercise.

The May afternoon was nice enough to have windows open in the back, and the faint notes of a different kind of music filtered in. A merry-go-round revolved endlessly in the funeral home’s parking lot, similar to the one in Violet’s basement.

Mom nudged Dad again. “Why can’t they close the windows, at least? You should talk to someone about that.”

My father simply patted her hand.

Violet had a detailed plan for her Celebration of Life service, from beer on tap to a carnival band and a fortune-teller. A hot dog cart provided food, and a cotton-candy maker offered dessert.

She’d left her old friend and attorney in charge, and Bram Dekker Sr. had followed Violet’s instructions to the letter. Including a sign in the entry hall, a quote by Stan Laurel: “IF ANY OF YOU CRY AT MY FUNERAL, I’LL NEVER SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN.”

Black-clad people filed by us in an endless line, then by the cherry-red-and-chrome coffin reminiscent of Violet’s old Mustang. Violet looked peaceful, fabulous, and mysterious—a diva to the end.

I tried not to look at her so I wouldn’t cry. She’d been clear that she wanted the day to be festive. A joyful celebration, her instructions specifically said.

Her funeral notice requested that people donate to her scholarship fund in lieu of flowers, so I filled the dozens of easels that surrounded her with her own paintings instead of wreaths. The paintings came from private collections, on loan for the day. The overall effect was stunning: color and light and life, movement, joy, adventure.

After reading about Vincent van Gogh’s death in the little green book, I grabbed a volume of his works from Violet’s bookshelf. Mixed in with the artist’s spectacular creations was a short biography that mentioned his funeral. He had his art instead of flowers at his gravesite. I thought something similar would be fitting for Violet.

“Goodbye, my friend.” A middle-aged woman I didn’t know slipped a tube of paint into the coffin.

Another mourner told her, “We’ll see each other again.”

And the next: “I’ll miss you, Violet.”

Next to me, my mother rubbed her hip.