 Funeral Eve |
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Scenes from funeral eve. Relatives at my parents' house. The pinot grigio is a-flowin'. Visions and revisions of the prayers of the faithful. Brisket. Honey baked turkey. Pear pie. Chicken and wild rice casserole. Fruit and vanilla dip. Five kinds of cheesecake. More wine. Memories of my grandmother, many off-color until my aunt the nun gets there, because as my mom says, "She does not find this humor humorous." Laughing as my aunt talks about how there is no such thing as "the one," and if there is, "he just dies on you." My cousin guffawing so hard when she said that that he exclaimed, "The plane ticket was worth it, just for that!" It was his very kind and beloved father the one who went and died on his mother. Remembering how my grandmother was mean to her family but nice to the poor. Her night blooming cereus. Her roses. Who has her thesis? (My mom.) Who has her letter from Cleanth Brooks? (Don't know!) Who has this book or that book? (I have some. I'm fighting you for those. But she gave them to me! You got the pictures.) And on and on. But all in good spirits. My little brother said he had to leave and I lifted my glass to him and explained, "He's got some sorority girls to bend over," and my cousin said, "Usually I hear bend over in reference to the gays," and being one he would know, and we giggled and I told him how my aunt the nun told me he wasn't gay anymore, and he just looked flummoxed by that one, and we drank some more. My aunt commented, "When Eliza has something to say ... she says it!" It's all fun and games until someone busts out with the ashes. My mom held the box in her lap to scoop out a few for her brother, who wants to save some and set up an altar in his house, and turning pale and saying, "I don't think I can do this." My sister and I rushed over, took the box, and did the transferring. "There are bones chips in this!" she whispered urgently. "I got some on my hands," I shrugged. My aunt saying, "Does your mom have a dustpan?" My dad and uncle struggling to figure out how the screws went back in the box. "Don't puncture the bag!" advised my aunt's friend. Surreal. Just eat some more fudge. Here, do you want some more fig cake? Is that caramel apple cheesecake? Are there any more pralines? This wine is not cold. Put some ice in it! Okay. Okay. My mom leading a prayer, of course, before the box was screwed shut. "May we all remember that we'll all be ashes someday and until then may we live our lives to the fullest." Amen to that, Ma! "At first I was not upset that she was dead," said my cousin, "And then it started to ... not be okay." And we drank, and we ate, and we laughed, and there were my grandmother's ashes on my hands. And I'm just glad I was able to get a little bit drunk.
© Copyright 2003 elb |
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