I try never to write about my trade (I'm a mortician), but I felt this was compelling and that I could hide identities well enough to make it work. So here goes (after my standard warning)
DANGER! POETRY ALERT! A POEM IS ABOUT TO BEGIN!
NEXT OF KIN
"I can't let you you in," I told the woman at the doorway of the funeral home. And I could see her try to repress the desperation and stoically accept the lot society had placed on her for committing the sin of loving a woman. A woman she had loved exclusively for the preceding twenty-five years. They were a married couple in every important way...except by law. And it was the law that I was obliged to follow.
Because in the days before Domestic partnerships and durable powers of attorney it didn't matter how much you loved that person the same gender as you, you were NEVER their next of kin.
The legal next of kin of the dead woman in the casket in the chapel of the funeral home where I worked was her homophobic mather who hated her daughter's lifestyle and despised her life-partner.
"THAT WOMAN is not allowed into the viewing or the funeral," she had told us and she had a legal right to say this. And told I told the woman at the door that afternoon,
"I can't let you in,I'm sorry."
"I understand," she said, "It was the same at the hospital." She lowered her head and turned to leave.
But one of the major reasons I became a mortician was to allow people an opportunity to grieve. So I said, "Wait. Her mother is with her now, but she will leave at nine o'clock when we close. You know sometimes I get so busy I forget to lock the door until nine-thirty and I sometimes even forget to turn off the lights in the chapel until ten-thirty. Someone could leave out the chapel door at ten-twenty and I would even know they were there."
She nodded understanding, gave me a slight smile and left.
The mother of the dead woman left the funeral home at five minutes of nine, from the office I thought I heard the bell of the front door opening twenty minutes later. Did I forget to lock it? wow...well I'll check it in a few minutes. When I locked the door I thought I heard a voice from the chapel: a voice of grief, of love, of sorrow, even a voice of anger. I distinctly heard the phrase, "I am so angry at you for dying"...it's funny how the air conditioner can play tricks with my hearing.
At about ten-twenty I thought I heard the chapel door close. SILLY ME, I had forgotten to turn the chapel lights off. There was no one in there except the dead woman in the casket. I closed the casket, turned off the lights and began my walk home.
And I was reminded that night that sometimes the most important way of saying "I love you"...
...is saying "Goodbye"
DANGER! POETRY ALERT! A POEM IS ABOUT TO BEGIN!
NEXT OF KIN
"I can't let you you in," I told the woman at the doorway of the funeral home. And I could see her try to repress the desperation and stoically accept the lot society had placed on her for committing the sin of loving a woman. A woman she had loved exclusively for the preceding twenty-five years. They were a married couple in every important way...except by law. And it was the law that I was obliged to follow.
Because in the days before Domestic partnerships and durable powers of attorney it didn't matter how much you loved that person the same gender as you, you were NEVER their next of kin.
The legal next of kin of the dead woman in the casket in the chapel of the funeral home where I worked was her homophobic mather who hated her daughter's lifestyle and despised her life-partner.
"THAT WOMAN is not allowed into the viewing or the funeral," she had told us and she had a legal right to say this. And told I told the woman at the door that afternoon,
"I can't let you in,I'm sorry."
"I understand," she said, "It was the same at the hospital." She lowered her head and turned to leave.
But one of the major reasons I became a mortician was to allow people an opportunity to grieve. So I said, "Wait. Her mother is with her now, but she will leave at nine o'clock when we close. You know sometimes I get so busy I forget to lock the door until nine-thirty and I sometimes even forget to turn off the lights in the chapel until ten-thirty. Someone could leave out the chapel door at ten-twenty and I would even know they were there."
She nodded understanding, gave me a slight smile and left.
The mother of the dead woman left the funeral home at five minutes of nine, from the office I thought I heard the bell of the front door opening twenty minutes later. Did I forget to lock it? wow...well I'll check it in a few minutes. When I locked the door I thought I heard a voice from the chapel: a voice of grief, of love, of sorrow, even a voice of anger. I distinctly heard the phrase, "I am so angry at you for dying"...it's funny how the air conditioner can play tricks with my hearing.
At about ten-twenty I thought I heard the chapel door close. SILLY ME, I had forgotten to turn the chapel lights off. There was no one in there except the dead woman in the casket. I closed the casket, turned off the lights and began my walk home.
And I was reminded that night that sometimes the most important way of saying "I love you"...
...is saying "Goodbye"
abyssbecomesme:
that was horribly sad, but beautiful.