Ashes in March

Chapter 9: Illicit Ash Things

Long wait and probably worth it?

Well, I think so.

Also, can't stop listening to Dreams by Fleetwood Mac. Do yourself a favor and listen to it. For the culture.

Enjoy!

***

As a child, I learned about death fairly quickly. I mean, there were always dead people in our house, with us basically living in the morgue and all. I think that I always knew the difference between a dead person and an alive one.

My parents' favorite story to tell was that when Nick was just two and I was yet to be conceived, he had accidentally fallen into an occupied casket and then, without knowing that he was in there with the late Mr. Thomas, set the casket on display. Basically, Mrs. Thomas had something short of a heart attack when she found a toddler in a casket with her dead husband.

Funeral directors loved that shit.

And honestly, when my parents told that story at parties or just over dinner with friends, I always laughed. It was funny.

But now, after everything, I couldn't. Because now Nick was in an actual casket, in the ground, and he wasn't going to be climbing out anytime soon.

So, every time we host a funeral, I have to place my memories in a box. The association of caskets and cold cheeks and the sickly sweet scent of flowers everywhere, I shove them into a drawer because if I don't, I might lose myself.

I organize the viewing room with floral arrangements and the casket and the orders of service and I have to remain stable. Funeral directors are these quiet, stoic beings that drift along in the background. I have to be that: a silent ghost among the living.

Funeral homes are a business. We file death certificates, order caskets, work with florists and caterers. We're event planners. And that's how I can compartmentalize. I'm working, running a business.

But today, it's hard. On this dreary Sunday afternoon, it's hard to get out of bed, to put on a smile, to act like a human. In order to keep from crawling into a ball, I greet mourners at the front door and try to swallow the sour taste in my throat.

I observe as my father, still and quiet, shows people to their seats and the bitterness in my throat intensifies. I often have a hard time facing my father any other day because his smile, his eyes, the soft tilt of his head and hunch in his shoulders is all Nick. But this day, today, it's even worse.

My father walks back towards the front of the viewing room and catches me watching him. His green eyes, so much like his, bore into mine behind wire framed glasses, my own probably empty or perhaps even a little sad, and he doesn't smile. His mouth is soft like he wants to but I'm kind of glad he doesn't. I couldn't muster one even if I wanted to. I turn away instead.

"Welcome," I say to a stone faced couple as they walk through the foyer. "The service will begin shortly." They nod and shuffle towards the pews.

"Rowena?" I hear behind me.

My father is standing there, broad and tall, his cologne light and reminiscent in my nose.

"Could you please help me get some more orders?" he asks, referring to the orders of service, his eyes gentle. I nod and clench my jaw. The last thing I want to do is be in a room alone with my father.

Ever since the thing, my mother would occasionally push to talk about my brother, but my father never mentioned him to me. Sometimes there would be a silence between us and he would inhale to breathe the words but they never came out. A part of me was thankful and the other part of me dreaded for that one time. That one time he would say something and I couldn't. Especially not today.