maimed_observer
12-19-2007, 12:23 PM
The casket we got for you is made of oak. I think you would like it.
Tough, solid, durable. Covered in knots of different sizes, just visible beneath the thick coat of varnish. Like galaxies in space.
Mahogany, walnut, maple and pine were the other choices. The grain of the maple was nice. Ripples. The pine had a nice scent but reminded me of “pine box”. Archaic, cheap.
My favorites were the walnut and mahogany. Especially the mahogany. There was something about that deep reddish-brown. It reminded me of you. Your hair.
Not that my choice really mattered. While I was deliberating before the display wall, in the funeral parlor, your sister had taken one look and given the director her decision. I nearly had my nose on mahogany when Rachel called me over to the director’s desk. She was explaining her choice. It was oak.
She chose it because of a tree located near your first home. The centerpiece of a park. Large with low-hanging limbs. Rachel said that, in the summer, when you were young, you’d run off. Your parents would search for you, calling your name, but only getting their echo for a response. Eventually, you would be found. Perched upon a branch, twenty feet in the air, shaking little acorns loose, which scratched the dry grass before hitting the earth with a soft thud, talking or singing to yourself. Rachel smiled, thinking of you in that old oak tree. “Mighty oaks from little acorns grow.”
Oh. The casket has a name, too. It wasn’t just by the type of wood. …What was it? …All of them did. Dignified, tasteful. …What were they? …Damn. I’ll think of them. Or I’ll ask the director after the service.
Speaking of, here’s a man that you’d really get a kick out of. Jerry Barth of Barth Funeral Home. He’s middle-aged, tall, thin. He should be gangly, but there’s something regal about him. Brought out by the line of work, I suppose. His hair is silver, except for a streak of chestnut down the middle, shoulder-length and slicked back. Maybe it’s not all the line of work. His green eyes give him a stately quality. Like emeralds. Warm, generous.
But the part of him that you would have loved, was the terms and phrases he used. Most of what he said was the typical talk of a funeral director. Tranquil, sincere, optimistic, comforting. But then he’d throw a curveball. Hahahaha! (You’ll appreciate that pun in a moment.)
Jerry was speaking. Things began to sink in. I was watching the dust float in the stream of sunlight, flowing through the window, onto the indigo rug beside the desk, when I heard Rachel sniff. I took her hand in mine. Maybe more for myself. Then he said, “Many people don’t see the shine because they are blinded by sadness.” This confused me out of the moment. I began listening intently to him, now curious.
“The shine” meant “dying”, I learned. It was odd, but the more I thought about it, it became kind of nice.
The other saying he had was “called up”. Rather than “died”, “gone” or “passed”. He looked at Rachel, with sympathetic eyes and said, “Your brother has been called up.” What followed was a quick, firm squeeze of my hand, still holding hers. Unlike the longer squeezes of grief, this one was of incredulity and humor. I returned it. I mean, were you going from the minors to the majors? I suppose. But what was he doing making a baseball reference? Was he Jerry Barth, former relief pitcher, now director of Barth Funeral Home? Hahahahaha!
We brought a bunch of your orchids. Cattleya, Laelia, Dendrobium, Sophronitis, Vanda, Brassia, Cymbidium. In pastel pink, vanilla, maroon, lavender, pale gold, chocolate, green. Whorls, sepals and lips. Soft, matte, sponge-like, alien.
They’re displayed through out, but the main bunch is in a vase on a table next to your casket. Which match. The table and casket. Same color and varnish. Oak, I’m sure.
The vase is by Sam. He made a few for the orchids. All glass with swirls of color that play off of the orchids. They seem to shimmer even in the shadows. They remind me of the sculptures during his “Suburban” phase.
I went with Rachel, to your place, to pick the flowers. Everything is as it was. All your work, all your books. The musty smell of yellowing paper intermingling with the vibrant fragrance of flowers. It’s my lucky task to sort through all your papers. Covered in microscopic print. At least your borderline O.C.D. kept everything in meticulous order.
Your sister has been tending the garden. I forgot how beautiful it was. The orchid and rose gardens: pinks, reds and whites emerging from spiraling vines. The greenhouse: humid, a myriad of scents, lamplight reflecting off of the dewy glass and petals. I really understood why you called it your sanctuary. And now it is for Rachel. She told me how much time she has been spending here, while we plucked flowers. It’s giving her a lot of peace.
While we were down in the dirt, she told me a funny story. You were a freshman in high school, barely 14, sitting at your battered desk, back to the door, working on homework for art class. While you were drawing, Rachel tip-toed behind you, as she said she loved to do, and whispered in your ear, “What’cha doin’, Mark?” You jumped, cursed. She laughed and fell upon the bed.
“I’m drawing an orchid for Mrs. Klein’s class.”
“Ohhhhh. Freshman art. She’s alright.”
“Yeah, a little obsessed with flowers though. Photos, paintings, vases, pots, blouses. All filled with flowers.”
“Hahahaha! …You know what that’s about, don’t you?”
“…Yeah.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah…women?”
“Hahahaha! A specific part, yes. But you’re too young to know about that now aren’t you?” Then she mussed up your hair, as she also loved to do.
“Whatever, Rach.”
You’d look at her, annoyed, while she lay on her back in the bed, auburn hair splayed around her head, feet in the air.
“It’s mainly Georgia O’Keefe.”
“Yes! It’s all her! Georgia O’Keefe! Petaler of smut!”
I laughed so hard after she told me; I knocked over a small pot of sprouts. No damage done. The pot, plastic, and sprouts packed so tight in wet soil. I picked it back up before we went back out to the garden. Strolling and sharing more stories.
The service for you has just ended. I had a moment to sneak through the parlor to the casket display wall. Got the names: Provincial, Chancellor, Capitol, Trinity, Colonial and, my favorite, Masterpiece. That’s the mahogany one. Solid wood construction, rosetan velvet interior, fail safe liner, hand-rubbed, satin-finished, adjustable bed and mattress. Your casket is the Royal. Same but for a rosetan crepe interior.
Your sister is consoling one of your students. She read a poem. Things began to sink in again. I was welling. Many were sobbing, including the student by the end of it. I had to focus on her features. A gorgeous young thing of twenty. Raven-haired, soft green eyes, long ivory fingers that trembled as she spoke. Stunning, delicate. Like a flower. I wonder what else you were plucking. “Petaler of smut.”
The reception for you has now begun. I know you would like it.
It is amazing. Rachel and Sam planned the whole thing, keeping it under wraps. I was beginning to feel upset for being excluded. Now I’m glad. I couldn’t keep this secret.
It’s like a gallery. One of Sam’s. Glass sculptures like the vases but massive. Light installations. But still down to earth. More flowers. …Beautiful.
Now Sam’s explaining.
It was your idea! The two of you went to a show several years ago. Some of his work was being displayed. As the two of you walked through, you told him that, for your funeral, you wanted the reception to be like an art gallery. But less pretentious and more lively. A greenhouse gallery! Hahahaha!
“Mark?”
You wanted all your friends---
“Mark?”
To celebrate your life---
“Mark?!”
“…Yes?”
“Are you alright?”
“…Yeah…Sorry.”
“It’s ok. I was just wondering if you had had a chance to sign the condolence card for Kim.”
“Uhh…where is it? Oh. No. I was just about to. Give me a moment.”
…Kim…I’m sorry for your loss…I never know what the hell to write for these. Terrible…What did everyone else write? …Hmm…Ok. This is fine.
“Here you are Jane.”
…Where did she go?
“Sorry, Mark. Lisa had a question.”
“You were there and then you were gone.”
Tough, solid, durable. Covered in knots of different sizes, just visible beneath the thick coat of varnish. Like galaxies in space.
Mahogany, walnut, maple and pine were the other choices. The grain of the maple was nice. Ripples. The pine had a nice scent but reminded me of “pine box”. Archaic, cheap.
My favorites were the walnut and mahogany. Especially the mahogany. There was something about that deep reddish-brown. It reminded me of you. Your hair.
Not that my choice really mattered. While I was deliberating before the display wall, in the funeral parlor, your sister had taken one look and given the director her decision. I nearly had my nose on mahogany when Rachel called me over to the director’s desk. She was explaining her choice. It was oak.
She chose it because of a tree located near your first home. The centerpiece of a park. Large with low-hanging limbs. Rachel said that, in the summer, when you were young, you’d run off. Your parents would search for you, calling your name, but only getting their echo for a response. Eventually, you would be found. Perched upon a branch, twenty feet in the air, shaking little acorns loose, which scratched the dry grass before hitting the earth with a soft thud, talking or singing to yourself. Rachel smiled, thinking of you in that old oak tree. “Mighty oaks from little acorns grow.”
Oh. The casket has a name, too. It wasn’t just by the type of wood. …What was it? …All of them did. Dignified, tasteful. …What were they? …Damn. I’ll think of them. Or I’ll ask the director after the service.
Speaking of, here’s a man that you’d really get a kick out of. Jerry Barth of Barth Funeral Home. He’s middle-aged, tall, thin. He should be gangly, but there’s something regal about him. Brought out by the line of work, I suppose. His hair is silver, except for a streak of chestnut down the middle, shoulder-length and slicked back. Maybe it’s not all the line of work. His green eyes give him a stately quality. Like emeralds. Warm, generous.
But the part of him that you would have loved, was the terms and phrases he used. Most of what he said was the typical talk of a funeral director. Tranquil, sincere, optimistic, comforting. But then he’d throw a curveball. Hahahaha! (You’ll appreciate that pun in a moment.)
Jerry was speaking. Things began to sink in. I was watching the dust float in the stream of sunlight, flowing through the window, onto the indigo rug beside the desk, when I heard Rachel sniff. I took her hand in mine. Maybe more for myself. Then he said, “Many people don’t see the shine because they are blinded by sadness.” This confused me out of the moment. I began listening intently to him, now curious.
“The shine” meant “dying”, I learned. It was odd, but the more I thought about it, it became kind of nice.
The other saying he had was “called up”. Rather than “died”, “gone” or “passed”. He looked at Rachel, with sympathetic eyes and said, “Your brother has been called up.” What followed was a quick, firm squeeze of my hand, still holding hers. Unlike the longer squeezes of grief, this one was of incredulity and humor. I returned it. I mean, were you going from the minors to the majors? I suppose. But what was he doing making a baseball reference? Was he Jerry Barth, former relief pitcher, now director of Barth Funeral Home? Hahahahaha!
We brought a bunch of your orchids. Cattleya, Laelia, Dendrobium, Sophronitis, Vanda, Brassia, Cymbidium. In pastel pink, vanilla, maroon, lavender, pale gold, chocolate, green. Whorls, sepals and lips. Soft, matte, sponge-like, alien.
They’re displayed through out, but the main bunch is in a vase on a table next to your casket. Which match. The table and casket. Same color and varnish. Oak, I’m sure.
The vase is by Sam. He made a few for the orchids. All glass with swirls of color that play off of the orchids. They seem to shimmer even in the shadows. They remind me of the sculptures during his “Suburban” phase.
I went with Rachel, to your place, to pick the flowers. Everything is as it was. All your work, all your books. The musty smell of yellowing paper intermingling with the vibrant fragrance of flowers. It’s my lucky task to sort through all your papers. Covered in microscopic print. At least your borderline O.C.D. kept everything in meticulous order.
Your sister has been tending the garden. I forgot how beautiful it was. The orchid and rose gardens: pinks, reds and whites emerging from spiraling vines. The greenhouse: humid, a myriad of scents, lamplight reflecting off of the dewy glass and petals. I really understood why you called it your sanctuary. And now it is for Rachel. She told me how much time she has been spending here, while we plucked flowers. It’s giving her a lot of peace.
While we were down in the dirt, she told me a funny story. You were a freshman in high school, barely 14, sitting at your battered desk, back to the door, working on homework for art class. While you were drawing, Rachel tip-toed behind you, as she said she loved to do, and whispered in your ear, “What’cha doin’, Mark?” You jumped, cursed. She laughed and fell upon the bed.
“I’m drawing an orchid for Mrs. Klein’s class.”
“Ohhhhh. Freshman art. She’s alright.”
“Yeah, a little obsessed with flowers though. Photos, paintings, vases, pots, blouses. All filled with flowers.”
“Hahahaha! …You know what that’s about, don’t you?”
“…Yeah.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah…women?”
“Hahahaha! A specific part, yes. But you’re too young to know about that now aren’t you?” Then she mussed up your hair, as she also loved to do.
“Whatever, Rach.”
You’d look at her, annoyed, while she lay on her back in the bed, auburn hair splayed around her head, feet in the air.
“It’s mainly Georgia O’Keefe.”
“Yes! It’s all her! Georgia O’Keefe! Petaler of smut!”
I laughed so hard after she told me; I knocked over a small pot of sprouts. No damage done. The pot, plastic, and sprouts packed so tight in wet soil. I picked it back up before we went back out to the garden. Strolling and sharing more stories.
The service for you has just ended. I had a moment to sneak through the parlor to the casket display wall. Got the names: Provincial, Chancellor, Capitol, Trinity, Colonial and, my favorite, Masterpiece. That’s the mahogany one. Solid wood construction, rosetan velvet interior, fail safe liner, hand-rubbed, satin-finished, adjustable bed and mattress. Your casket is the Royal. Same but for a rosetan crepe interior.
Your sister is consoling one of your students. She read a poem. Things began to sink in again. I was welling. Many were sobbing, including the student by the end of it. I had to focus on her features. A gorgeous young thing of twenty. Raven-haired, soft green eyes, long ivory fingers that trembled as she spoke. Stunning, delicate. Like a flower. I wonder what else you were plucking. “Petaler of smut.”
The reception for you has now begun. I know you would like it.
It is amazing. Rachel and Sam planned the whole thing, keeping it under wraps. I was beginning to feel upset for being excluded. Now I’m glad. I couldn’t keep this secret.
It’s like a gallery. One of Sam’s. Glass sculptures like the vases but massive. Light installations. But still down to earth. More flowers. …Beautiful.
Now Sam’s explaining.
It was your idea! The two of you went to a show several years ago. Some of his work was being displayed. As the two of you walked through, you told him that, for your funeral, you wanted the reception to be like an art gallery. But less pretentious and more lively. A greenhouse gallery! Hahahaha!
“Mark?”
You wanted all your friends---
“Mark?”
To celebrate your life---
“Mark?!”
“…Yes?”
“Are you alright?”
“…Yeah…Sorry.”
“It’s ok. I was just wondering if you had had a chance to sign the condolence card for Kim.”
“Uhh…where is it? Oh. No. I was just about to. Give me a moment.”
…Kim…I’m sorry for your loss…I never know what the hell to write for these. Terrible…What did everyone else write? …Hmm…Ok. This is fine.
“Here you are Jane.”
…Where did she go?
“Sorry, Mark. Lisa had a question.”
“You were there and then you were gone.”