I’m dead, but my kids still ask me for a snack.

It wasn’t enough that they asked before breakfast, during breakfast, after breakfast, six times before lunch, eleven times during lunch, two dozen times before dinner, right after dinner, right before bed, right after bed, and in the middle of the night when I was alive. They had to go and do it after I was dead too.

I couldn’t even get through my own funeral without one of them approaching the casket, asking if I’d packed them those little apple slices and caramel dip they like so much.

At my interment, one of them threw a rose on my casket, then asked where I put that lunch baggie of Goldfish crackers.

When my husband brought them to my gravesite to check out the new headstone, one of them knelt down, bent closer to the ground, and whispered, “I’m hungry. Can I have some chips?”

I knew they had just eaten dinner, but it didn’t matter. I heard my youngest telling my oldest his snack tummy wasn’t full and could he please go ask Mommy for some carrots and ranch.

Even in the afterlife, they hassle me nonstop for snacks. The other morning, my middle child grabbed the Ouija board from the game closet, set it up in her bedroom, and summoned my ghost for some cheese.

Where was my husband? In the bathroom probably. It doesn’t matter, though. He could have been sitting right there on the couch, and they would have walked right past him to the family portrait on the wall, stared into my lifeless eyes, and asked why I didn’t buy veggie straws.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Silly me for expecting to be able to rest in peace.

I’ve already placed an Instacart order to be delivered to the cemetery for their visit next weekend. Unfortunately, the supermarket is out of the good stuff. I’ll just have to deal with hearing complaints about store-brand pretzel rods.

It’s only a matter of time before they start asking me to carry it back to the car for them too.