You float down river Styx on a bed of sea monkeys. Tom Nook stands, shrouded, where Chairon should, plucks two Bells from your unseeing eyes, mutters something about how debt does not die. Webkinz Cerberus growls in greeting, three pink poodle heads watch your passage.

Past the gates, dead Tamagotchis flock to your side, a swarm of winged eggs. Your drowned Sims know well enough to stick to the shadows, know that your death cannot grant them a pool ladder.

Sisyphus was sentenced to hit himself in the ankles with a Razor Scooter until the end of time. Prometheus’s regenerative liver is feasted on by Furbies.

You probably died by putting your Gameboy Color in your Easy Bake Oven. Or choking on a Jawbreaker. You survived Y2K but did not outlast your Nokia. You died before your Beanie Babies lost their expected value. You died without health insurance.

When my aunt died, the neighbors knocked on her coffin to complain about the state of her lawn—or rather, lack of lawn. A natural-born biologist, her yard was the only untamed space on the block, a refuge for the birds and the bees, though it was far from the modern definition of sexy. The overgrown bushes put 70s porn stars to shame. Vines slipped through foundational cracks, urging the house to just let down her walls. Buds peeped through bathroom windows, dandelion-wishing for a show.

We lower her coffin. Fill in the pit with Walmart-brand dirt. Even the roses are fake.