I dreamed I was the DJ at my own funeral

I was in a church that smelled like old vinyl and damp concrete. The playlist was all my own songs—some I’d never written, some I’d forgotten. People were crying, but not for me. They were dancing. A woman in a red dress kept mouthing lyrics I didn’t recognize. At the end, I turned off the system and walked into the back room where the speakers used to be. There was just a single pair of worn-out shoes on the floor. Mine. But I hadn’t worn them in years.