Over the course of three days in October of 1995, I posted the following cathartic spewage in about 10 or so individual parts. Since the tone is generally darker than most of the other stuff, I figured I'd isolate it in its own page, so it can be easily ignored.
Halloween draws near. It's always been one of my favorite holidays. It's a time when a
young man's fancy turns to thoughts of death. Well, okay, it used to be a cool time of
year because of the spooky decorations, the candy, the chilling, thrilling sounds of the
haunted house… and that still holds true. The rubber skeleton hanging from my
rearview mirror is one of those timeless silly pleasures I will probably never outgrow.
But in recent years Halloween has taken on some additional baggage for me. Real death.
Real, palpable, tangible death. That isn't necessarily bad or good, it just is. Roundabout
this time of year I start musing on death and dying, which may, at first glance, make my
postings seem to take a depressing nose dive. That's not my intention, though. I've had
some experiences with death, and I've come through them with my optimism and enthusiasm
for life intact.
I'm still trying to figure out why.
Ideally I'd like to write the next "Death Be Not Proud." Something that inspires
folks to live every day to the fullest.
Realistically, I'm going to post little snippets of death-related stories to satisfy my
own urge to spew, which will probably be almost universally killfiled [Editurz note: i.e.,
automatically screened out of most folks' Usenet newsreaders].
* * * * * * *
From either the Houston Post or Houston Chronicle, probably around 1986 (I saved the
article, but I didn't note the date or origin… hey, I didn't know I was
going to be citing it some day…)
Muncie, Ind. (AP) – A man angered when his order was misunderstood at a fast-food
restaurant drive-up window sped away, lost control of his car, and died after it hit a
utility pole and flipped, police said.
Vance F. Martin, 25, was pronounced dead at Ball Memorial Hospital shortly after the 2:33
a.m. Friday accident. An autopsy showed he died of massive head injuries, said Delaware
County Coroner Jack Stonebraker, Jr.
Martin's car struck a concrete median, became airborne for 40 feet and hit a large rock
and a pole before flipping once. He was not wearing a safety belt and was thrown from the
car, police said.
An employee of the restaurant near the accident scene told police Martin became upset
after employees could not understand his order. When he was asked to drive to the window
and place the order, Martin left the restaurant at a high rate of speed, police said.
* * * * * * *
From either the Houston Post or Houston Chronicle, Novemeber 1st or possibly 2nd, 1987:
Two counts of involuntary manslaughter were filed Sunday against a southwest Houston
man in an accident that claimed the lives of a man and a woman late Saturday.
"I'm… my name is Jim Porter. I'm a friend of Phil's, and I just… found
out…."
I don't remember what he said. I was speaking to Phil's older brother. All I really
remember is the point when he cut himself off in mid-sentence and wailed "Oh
God" and dropped the phone.
I found out that Phil and his date had left a Halloween costume party. It was about 11:45.
Phil's car was struck by a guy who was drag racing and ran a red light.
I was numb for days. After the service, talking with a few friends from our group, we were
suddenly struck by the realization that Phil and his date were killed in costumes. None of
us had actually seen him that night, but Phil had told me he was planning to wear an old
costume his brother had made for some frat party years back. My understanding was that it
was some kind of vampire-type getup, only, when the wearer (or, in this case, paramedics)
opened the cape, a clever system of levers and pulleys would give rise to a large artificial
penis.
* * * * * * *
"Hello? Yes, this is Mrs. Porter. My husband has expired."
November 1990 now. The first Porter family deathwatch, at least for my generation.
Later that day the surviving Porters would sit around the kitchen table and try to select
the best euphemism for the newspaper obituary.
My mother, who had used the word just hours before, now decided that "expired"
wouldn't do. "Went to be with the Lord?" No, we decided, that was too
presumptuous. "Passed away?" That would probably do. "Or passed on? What do
you think?"
I didn't dare say anything, as it was an awkward moment and I wasn't sure how it would be
received by the rest of the family, but, I don't know, I was suddenly struck by the
silliness of it all, and I found myself struggling to keep from giggling as I thought,
"Bought the farm," or "Took the big dirt nap."
* * * * * * *
"You can look at him if you'd like."
"No, thank you, as I was there when he died, and I've already seen him dead, and
therefore I don't really have any need to see him made up to look less dead in order to
come to grips with his death."
"They did a wonderful job. They covered his stoma."
"It's a shame he didn't live to see that."
* * * * * * *
I stood with my father as we waited in line. Ahead of us was a man who spoke with a
vibrator pressed to his neck, asking the nurse how long it would be.
My father whispered to me, "That's so…." He completed the thought with a
shudder.
* * * * * * *
"Hook 'em Horns?" I asked.
My father shook his head and gestured for his tablet. I handed it to him, with the plastic
stick of a pen, and he wrote, in big letters, "I love you."
"I love you too, Dad."
He pulled the plastic sheet up from the wax backing, with a loud "zik," erasing
what he had just written. Then he wrote, "Sign language." He made the gesture
again.
"Ah!" I said.
Since I was attending the University of Houston at the time, I showed him the gesture for
"Eat 'em up, Coogs."
The last thing my father said to me… it MAY have been "Hook 'em Horns."
Just to spite me.
* * * * * * *
There was a cockroach living in one of the urinals where I worked. I would go in to
pee, and I would see it in there, and I would be fascinated. It would be clinging to the
back of the urinal, waving antennae around, sniffing at the air, and it would cock its
little head to check out my penis (which I can only assume must have been terribly
intimidating), and I would pee, and when I was finished, I would flush, bringing a wall of
water down on the roach, sending him swirling around in the bottom, blocked from draining
by a little rubber no-skid mat. The water would drain away, and I would leave, and when I
returned, the roach would be back up at the top of the urinal again, carefree and happy,
antennae waving cordially.
Over the next few days I found myself growing attached to the little fellow, amused by the
fact that he just would not leave that urinal. Then one day the man from Big State Pest
Control paid his monthly visit. I saw him and asked him to "spare the one in the
urinal," to which he replied, "Oh I already got him."
I ran to the men's room and rushed over to the urinal, and sure enough, there he was in
the bottom, on his back, his legs twitching, his spiracles wheezing.
See, I think the bad thing about being human is that we're too damned smart for our own
good. We know we are alive, and we know we're going to die. I'll wager the cockroach
didn't know that. As a result he probably didn't brood for too long. He probably wasn't
lying there, thinking, "What have I done with my life? What have I accomplished?
What's going to happen when I die? Will I go to Heaven? Am I right with the Lord?"
* * * * * * *
"You dropped a rose, Bill."
"Shit." Bill turned and headed back for the car.
Kathy shut her door. "It's okay, I've got it. I'll just have seven to your
five."
"Oooh! Damn you! Okay, come on, hurry. Looks like we might see some rain."
"Kath, come here! Check this out."
Kathy approached. She saw the monument. "Oh yeah, is that another one of those
'Woodsmen of the World' stones? There's one over there, too. Neat markers. I'd say it's
worth a rose. I gave the other guy one."
"I like it. I can't figure out if it's an actual petrified stump or if it's just a
sculpture."
"Like, I'm sure they're cutting down the petrified forests for the sake of selling
gravestones."
"Hey, it could happen! And besides, you've raised an interesting point. These guys
you're so quick to give roses to were the fathers of deforestation."
Kathy looked at the stone. "Mr. McCowan here died in 1918. Deforestation was still
cool back then. Give him a rose."
"You give him one of yours."
"I gave the other guy one! I don't want to give all my roses to woodsmen."
"Okay, fine." Bill knelt before the stone. "Sorry Mr. McCowan. Kathy here
had seven roses to my five, but I'm afraid she's still feeling a bit stingy. Maybe next
time, huh?"
"Oh Jesus Christ." Kathy placed a rose on the grave. "That was your
rose, though," she said.
Bill and Kathy walked. The sky was a uniform shade of light gray.
"Have you heard about those 'Talking Tombstones?'"
Kathy looked at Bill. "Is this for real?"
"I swear I'm not making this up. I remember hearing about them a couple of years ago.
I don't know if they were ever marketed, but somebody designed a tombstone which would
play a recorded message when your visitors pressed a button. Sort of like, 'Hello my
friend. Weep not for me, for I am in a better place now.'"
Kathy laughed. "That's too cool!"
"I always thought it would be funny to record something like screams of agony...
'Aiiiee! The fires of hell are lapping at my ass!'"
She swatted Bill's arm. "That's terrible. Oh look, this one's got an anthill!"
She stopped by the grave.
"Cool."
"That's not cool, it's sad!"
"Sad? Naw, it's, like, a living marker. It's nature's tombstone." Bill knelt
down and inserted a stem into the top of the mound, so that the rose stood upright. Ants
began to emerge and climb. "It's the whole 'ashes to ashes' thing. It's a sign that
Mother Earth has welcomed him back." He looked up at Kathy. "We should've
brought the cognac."
"Probably kill the ants."
"Do you want to make love?"
"Eventually."
"Do you believe there's an afterlife?" Kathy asked.
"I don't know. Be nice if there was. I'd like to think these folks we've been meeting
today appreciate the roses. But I'm not going to count on it. I know there's a duringlife,
though."
"Then why are we here?"
"Ah, the ultimate question. In my own personal religious beliefs I feel
that—"
"No no, I mean why are we here, in this cemetery, giving dead strangers
flowers?"
"Oh! I don't know, it seemed like a good idea. You want to do something else?"
"Beloved Friend."
They stared at the marker.
"I guess she didn't have any family."
"Now that's sad."
"Maybe, maybe not. She had a friend."
They each laid a rose on the grave.
"Bill, if I were to die right now, what would you put on my headstone?"
"Hmmm." He stood, silent. "How about, 'It was weird, she just up and died
right here.'"
Kathy sighed.
"Well jeez, I don't want to think about you dying. I mean... I would.... Okay, if you
were to die right now, your headstone would read, 'I wonder if she... uh, knew how much I
really... er... I mean I....'"
"You realize that when you use ellipses they can charge you for up to four
periods."
"How about now?"
"No. Besides, there's someone over there."
Kathy and Bill stopped.
Up ahead, in a part of the cemetery where the grass had not yet filled in all the bare
patches of ground, a young woman crouched in front of a headstone. She stroked it with one
hand, and with the other she brushed the hair back from her still, dark face. A
bouquet of flowers lay in the dirt.
Bill looked at the two roses in his hand. "Maybe we should give her the rest of
these."
"I think maybe we should go now."
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
"I know, it was. And I'm glad we did it."
"Yeah, me too."
They walked in silence, hand in hand.
"Kath?"
"Yeah?"
"You like the symphony?"
"Yeah."
"You wanna dress up in clown suits and go?"
* * * * * * *
From Jimbo's journal, July 11th, 1994:
You don't have to tell me it's a wacky world. I know it's a wacky world.
Sometimes I think the universe operates on principals of irony. Or maybe God has
got a really sick sense of humor. Why else would rednecks
win the lottery? Why else would North Korea's president die of a heart attack mere days
before a historic meeting with the South's president to negotiate a settlement to the
nukes problem? And why would good people who believe in a benevolent god be subjected to
such pain and suffering?
I was born a Catholic. Or maybe a Methodist. I can't tell you
for sure because we rarely went to church, but occasionally as a wide-eyed child I would
ask a question like "Why is the sky blue?" or "Why does it rain?" or
"How does a catalytic converter work?", and the standard reply was that God had
something to do with it.
I recall once asking my mother about death. I think I must've seen a death on TV. Probably
on Barnaby Jones. A Quinn-Martin production of some sort. Anyway, I was told that all
living things must eventually die. I didn't buy it, but she assured me that, yes,
eventually she would die, and I would die, and my father would die, and all the plants and
animals would die, because it's just a natural part of life. I cried. I didn't want to
die. I didn't want her to die. I might've been a little pissed at my father over a
spanking or two, but still, I didn't want him to die. I asked her if she was scared of
dying, and she said no, because after you die, you go to heaven, and you get to be with
the Lord, and you'll be reunited with all your dead loved ones, and everything will be
fine.
I wondered if I could still have my own room.
Somewhere later down the road I began attending a Baptist church with my brother and his
family. It was then that I learned that, actually, there was a pretty good chance you
wouldn't get into heaven. I was told that I was a sinner. We all were sinners, and we had
to constantly get ourselves cleansed, lest we wind up in hell. The only way to assure
salvation was to accept the Lord Jesus Christ as your Personal Savior. So I prayed, and I
asked the Lord to save me. I never heard a reply, but I felt better for a couple of days
until I suddenly realized I hadn't been paying a whole lot of thought to God or the Bible
or Holy things lately, and I asked Him to save me again, for good this time.
Over the next several years I would make repeated attempts to lure the Lord into my heart,
and I would ask Him to help me stick to the path of righteousness and good, and while I
was never particularly sinful or bad, I would always eventually realize that the Lord had
apparently slipped out some time when I wasn't looking.
Gradually I came to believe that I was either damned to hellfire no matter how hard I
tried, or perhaps I was good enough and the Lord was, in effect, booting me out of the
nest so he could more fully concentrate on the really screwed-up people.
I settled on the latter belief, egomaniac that I am.
But the rest of my family, those wacky Christians, they continued to ask the Lord for
guidance and whatnot. And I suppose, occasionally, if I had a particularly difficult
problem to deal with, I would still send out a prayer to the Big Guy too.
My sister was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1984, at the ridiculously
improbable age of 24. Let me capitalize that: DIAGNOSED WITH BREAST CANCER AT
AGE 24. That was my first clue that there *might* be something a little out of
whack with the Powers That Be. But after a mastectomy, and a helluva time with
chemotherapy and radiation, my sister appeared to have conquered her cancer.
A couple of years later, there was a recurrence on a few bones. More chemo &
radiation. Then another recovery and clean bill of health.
She has had a couple more recurrences, and while she still has a few trouble spots,
on the whole they appear to be held in check. I've prayed for her. I've asked the Lord to
please let her be cured. Please make the cancer go away. Please don't make her go through
this again. She repeatedly has placed her ultimate trust in the Lord throughout her times
of crises, and she keeps coming through them okay. The thing that bothers me is,
the crises
seem to keep coming. Perhaps they are tests of faith, but you'd think she'd have gotten a
passing grade by now.
My father was a proud man. He was a Marine. Fought in WWII. He spent a lot of time with
my sister at M.D. Anderson Hospital, and he was particularly horrified by the walking examples of
surgical disfigurement that travel the halls. More irony, he was diagnosed with cancer
of the mouth. Under the tongue, specifically. His horror of horrors. He couldn't stand the
thought of what the surgeons might do to him. Fortunately, his surgery was minimal, his
radiation was not too severe, and he didn't have to have chemotherapy. And he had five
good years with a clean bill of health and a pretty face. Until his recurrence in the
throat and lungs, resulting in disfiguring surgery and a little throat vibrator
he was never able to figure out how to work.
My mother took care of him at home until he died on November 17, 1990. His last memory of
me may be that of me helping my mom wipe his butt. If there is a God, I hope to God it
wasn't. Marines don't like their sons anywhere near their butts.
More irony. Caring for him those last 6 months drained about 5 years out of my mother.
After my father died, my mother suddenly found herself alone, age 65 (going on 70), in a
two-story, four-bedroom house which she did not want to leave. I was the last offspring
to leave the nest, ironically enough, in 1990, at age 24, about 2 months before my
father's recurrence. My first taste of independence and self-sufficiency, and suddenly I'm
feeling the overwhelming pull of guilt to return.
I didn't move back home, although I stayed over quite a bit. And roundabout 1991/early
1992, I did move home briefly while I was "between jobs". And I hated it. Purely
psychological, mind you. I mean, I had obviously failed at my self-sufficiency test, and
now, even worse, I found myself being "mothered" again. She wanted to cook for
me and clean my clothes and things. I would get up in the night to go pee, step on a
creaky floorboard, and immediately I would hear her rustle in her bed. She would
call out, "Are you okay?" "No ma, I'm in hell! Aaaaaagh! Aaaaaagh!"
After about three months I got a new job, and within a couple months of that, I flew the
nest again. My visits became less frequent. I was working a lot of weekend and late night
hours, and often I would end up budgeting my free time in ways that emphasized beer over
family bonds. Miller time versus Mom time. Nature versus nurture.
More irony. Now this woman who has been nothing but a selfless caregiver to others
suddenly finds herself in a hospital bed with a large brain tumor. And her son suddenly
finds himself to be an incredible asshole.
You know what her second biggest concern has been this past week? What's happening in the
O.J. Simpson trial. There have been long periods of silence in the various hospital rooms,
after we've recapped the basic I love you's and whatnot, and though there are times when
her speech is extremely difficult to understand, the one icebreaking phrase for which
there's no mistaking is "What happened to O.J.?"
"O.J. was pardoned by President Clinton."
She laughs.
Sometimes irony is okay.
* * * * * * *
As scientists are busily feuding amongst themselves as to whether or not the universe
is expanding or contracting, I cannot help but wonder how many of them are in hospitals.
My own personal theory is that the size of the universe depends on the relative health of
the observer.
My universe is expanding. I've got a notebook computer, a pint of Shiner Bock, a cat on my
lap, a rather large expanse of sky overhead, cars passing by, any one of which might be
transporting emirs or royalty or sultans of swing, and heck, they could get a flat tire,
and I could be summoned away from my keyboard to render assistance, and be rewarded
handsomely. It could happen. Ah, the stories I could tell.
Somewhere, in hospital not far away, there is a person whose universe is contracting.
Breakfast, lunch and dinner are milestones. Watching the second hand go round is a nice
way to pass the time. Failed attempts to locate a vein for the IV are ranked among the
greatest catastrophes of '95.
* * * * * * *
I could not breathe. I would later be informed that I had had the wind knocked out of
me. Ron had punched me in the stomach. I should've seen it coming. I had been challenged
to a fight, and I responded by politely refusing.
"You may break my body, but you will never break my spirit," I considered
saying. What I actually said was more along the lines of "oof!" And I didn't
really enunciate very well.
I spent a few moments on the ground, and Ron and his friend left. Ron later came past the
house and apologized. He still didn't want to be my friend, but I guess he must've felt
like he had punched Gandhi.
In the interim my mother had imparted these words of wisdom upon me: "The next time
anyone hits you, you hit 'em back." I kind of nodded and she said, "I'm serious.
If you don't, I will!" Then she told me the story about my older brother who kept
coming home from school with bite marks, and she told him the next time that kid bites
you, you bite him right back. This was a couple of decades before AIDS, mind you. Anyway,
apparently one day my brother came home from school with a large chunk of bloody flesh in
his teeth, and shortly thereafter the mother of the other child came calling, wanting to
know why my brother had bitten her son, and my mother said "Because I told him
to."
Not a particularly exciting story, I know, but when my mother recounted it, "Because
I told him to" resonated with intense power and drama, as if the phrase had been read
by James Earl Jones.
The point of the story was that my brother never came home with bite marks again, at least
not until Viet Nam.
* * * * * * *
"Mom?" I whispered at the bedside. "Mom? Are you awake?"
She opened her eyes.
"I'm having a nightmare." I sniffled and rubbed my nose on my sleeve.
Many times in the past I had awakened from a bad dream and gone into my parents' bedroom,
crying and sniffling, and my mom would ask me what was wrong, and I'd explain, and then,
much to my dad's chagrin, she would allow me to crawl up into their big king sized bed and
spend the rest of the night tucked safely between them, and all would be well.
Dad was gone now. And this bed was considerably smaller. I was considerably larger. And
what with all the tubes, it probably wasn't a good idea.
She looked into my eyes and squeezed my hand.
* * * * * * *
From the funeral service for NIMBY the hamster (where, if you didn't
have a personal inspirational anecdote to recount, one of the following would be provided for you):
I
I was driving down a dark, country lane in the middle of the night. There was a
terrible thunderstorm. Suddenly I had a blowout. I momentarily lost control of my car, and
skidded to a stop on the side of the road. I was stranded in the middle of nowhere. I
began to weep hysterically.
It was then that I noticed a little glint of light reflected in my headlights up ahead in
the road. As I watched I could make out a little plastic ball coming toward me. It came to
a stop right in front of me, and this rodent stepped out, into the rain. He came over and
tapped on my window to see if I was all right.
I said I was fine, and he asked me if I had a jack. He then proceeded to change my tire
for me, in the middle of this terrible storm.
There aren't many hamsters who would do that for a total stranger in the middle of the
night. Nimby was a saint.
II
I was having dinner with Nimby one night at Houston's and was enjoying a delightful
dinner and conversation, when suddenly a piece of my hot dog got lodged in my windpipe. I
couldn't breathe! I turned blue from embarrassment.
Fortunately Nimby knew what to do. He jumped up, wrapped his arms around me, and
administered the Heimlich maneuver.
And he even managed to get the restaurant to comp the hot dog.
Nimby's selflessness and quick-thinking saved my life.
III
I first met Nimby at a "Project: Literacy" awards banquet hosted by Barbara
Bush. Nimby was being presented with an award for his volunteer work in teaching
attractive young curvaceous blondes to read.
I was immediately struck by his warm smile, his friendly, easygoing manner, and his firm
handshake. He seemed to have his life together. And I think he wanted to give a little bit
back to his community. He was a genuine "point of light." He will be missed.
IV
When I first met Nimby, I was living on the streets, doing drugs, selling my body to
the night. Nimby took me off the streets, gave me a place to stay, and made sure I had
plenty of alfalfa pellets to eat.
Nimby helped me turn my life around. He made me believe in myself again. If it wasn't for
Nimby, I might be just another statistic.
V
I was sound asleep one night when I heard this terrible scratching at my door. I got
up, angry to be awakened, and threw open the door. I didn't see anybody at first, but then
I looked down and saw Nimby. He had this serious look on his face.
I found out that my building was on fire, and Nimby was running from door to door, waking
up all the neighbors. He must've saved a dozen lives that night.
VI
Nimby used to beat me up and steal my lunch money as a child. I hated him for it, until
one day I stood up to him. I said, "You can beat me up, you can take my lunch money,
but never again will I let you break my spirit!"
Nimby smiled, and he extended a hand, and he said he was glad to finally hear me say that.
He wrote me a check for all the lunch money he had taken, plus interest. He had been
investing it, he said, and by now I should have a good head start on a college fund. I
stood puzzled, and he said that he didn't mean to come across as a bully, but it had been
for my own good, and this experience had helped us both grow tremendously as people.
I developed a self-confidence which I had never known before. Nimby set my life on the
right course.
* * * * * * *
"Does anyone wish to say anything first?" Sarah asked, as we stood by the
freshly dug grave.
My brother and I looked at each other. He looked good in his suit. He cleared his throat.
"I found a passage in the Bible that I thought was appropriate. I'd like to read
that."
Sarah nodded. She looked damn good in her suit, too. She was married, which was probably a
good thing, since I'll bet it's pretty hard to get dates when you work at a funeral home.
My brother said, and I'm paraphrasing from memory here, "For everything, turn turn
turn, there is a season, turn turn turn. A time to reap. A time to sow. A time to laugh,
and a time to cry. A time to sneeze, and a time to blow. A time to live, and a time to
die." There was more, but it was mostly concerned with war and stuff, and I didn't
really think it applied.
He finished reading and closed his Bible.
"Would you like to place the cremains in the grave?"
Again, my brother and I looked at each other, and I could see my own expression reflected
in his face. The grave was an open hole dug at the site of our father's casket.
"Puh-puh-place the cremains into the guh-guh-grave?"
"No," my brother said, "I don't think so. You go ahead."
Sarah handed the urn to one of the diggers. He got down onto his knees and lowered the urn
into my father's plot. If it stank, he concealed it well.
"Now you can throw in a handful of dirt if you'd like."
My brother and I looked at each other again. They think we might want to throw dirt on our
mother? Why would we want to throw dirt on our mother? Do other people throw dirt on their
mothers? We don't look like we want to throw dirt on our mother, do we? Michael certainly
didn't look like the dirt-throwing type. Maybe it was me. I've had these shoes since...
well, let's see, I got them in high school... 11 years? I must look like a punk. No,
that's silly, it must be some sort of custom. Although they didn't ask us if we wanted to
throw dirt on our dad. And dad probably deserved to have a clod or two chunked at him.
Somewhere in the unspoken communication my brother and I determined that we couldn't
possibly have been the first ones they had ever asked. Throwing dirt on the dearly
departed is probably some sort of symbolic custom. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Here's
mud in your eye. That sort of thing.
And why not throw dirt on her? We were already disregarding her last wishes. She said she
wanted to be cremated and have her ashes sprinkled atop my father's grave. We made the
mistake of asking someone in the office of the Veteran's Memorial Cemetery if we could do
that, and they said no, good heavens, no, but we can dig a hole into your father's grave,
disturb his eternal slumber, and bury her ashes in a hermetically sealed state-approved
urn in the same general vicinity, sign here please....
We had an option. At the funeral home, we could've elected to have her ashes placed into
the $40 plastic box (the bare minimum meeting federal regulations for temporary storage of
cremains; it also came with a thermos and had a nice picture of Joey Lawrence on the
side). We could've scattered the ashes on our own time. We could've visited my father's
grave and discreetly scattered mom's remains. But this was a veteran's cemetery. I
remembered my father's tales of life in the Marines. Tales of discipline. Strict regimens.
Ship-shape this, and that so tight you could bounce a quarter on it. Someone would be
tending to the buzz cut cemetery grounds on a daily basis, the gas powered blower quickly
scattering most of mom among the horny Viet Nam vets.
Mom wasn't fond of Jimi Hendrix. Not at all.
My brother took a handful of dirt and dropped it into the hole. Then he stood up straight
and looked at me. He was pale, very pale.
Another closure. I knew it. Goddammit, I thought actually being there at her side when she
died was going to be the closure. And it was, I suppose, but then it was reopened over the
weekend as we worked to organize the service. Then the service was to be the closure. And
it was. And now I had reopen it and close it again.
I took a handful of dirt. I felt the dirt. It was real. It was the earth. The remains of
veterans and their wives, of braves and squaws, of rats and squirrels, of lizards and
dinosaurs. Nutrients that feed the grass. Grass that's eaten by roving herds of sheep.
Sheep that are mutilated by aliens. Aliens that crash their ships into the earth. Soon my
mother would be a part of that ongoing cycle.
I said a final telepathic goodbye, and a thank-you, and let the dirt fall into the grave.
Then I moved to Atlanta.