The Muppets attend Jim Henson’s funeral
and there is not a vacant seat in the room.
Everyone arrives on time, dressed in the appropriate garb - for once. Even Lew’s fish are painted mournful black.
The bear gives the opening eulogy. No one knew he was capable of such a straight face - not a bad joke in sight, and
the hecklers lay down their heckles, the dynamite goes unexploded, the pig does not steal the show.
Muppet after Muppet takes the podium, each speaking of the gravitas of beards, the contained insanity that birthed them oh so beautifully.
The dog does not attend. This goes unnoticed for years.
The Mayhem play a sober set, solemn and respect, only a single cymbal is devoured by the drummer.
The room fills with butterflies as the chief - at long last - takes the stage.
There is a frog in the frog’s throat as he sees the number of held paws, fur soaked from tears, eyes asking, “What now?”
He stands uncertain, usually so comfortable in the spotlight, and opens his mouth for the first time in months.
A voice erupts, not the same but just as sweet, just as familiar, just as much begging a sense of home,
saying: “We go on.”
