The rain proceeds gently in a caressing mist, descending upon those standing above the ground clothed in black. Intently they wait. Their thoughts are many. The wind slaps the trees. It is true for they sway with each blow. The curtain opens and thunder rolls in to set the stage for grief. Gracefully, he takes center stage capturing every heart of those present.
Briefly, Jenna contemplated the events that were to occur throughout the day, tossed back the blankets and sat up on the side of the bed. The sweet jasmine succumbed to the scent of freshly brewed coffee that meandered through the air. The combination of the two reminded her of pumpkin pie and made her mouth water.
The evening before was like a dream. She felt numb. This is what happens when someone we know dies. Finding the motivation to take each step to manage the day is tiresome.
She went into the kitchen poured herself a cup of hot coffee, pulled the package of ground round hamburger meat from the fridge, and placed it in the bowl with added fresh minced onion, and a few shakes of Worcestershire sauce for an extra punch of flavor.
It looks as though the whole afternoon is booked, she thought. The flowers are due to arrive at 1:00, other decorations at 3:00, and dinnertime at 6:00.
She began pinching off bits of burger, rolling it back and forth, and round and round, in between her hands into bite size meatballs and thinking how peculiar it is, you know: Death.
Select animals, such as cows, die and we eat them. People die and leave what remains and which cannot pass over to the other side. They leave their homes, their cars, their clothes, and you know, their body. Just because we no longer see the body, does not mean it is not still here with us. It is still here for sure, but in a different place. The day it happens, everything apart from it, is just where it is, waiting…waiting to be driven, washed, or done somehow.
She covered the meatballs in sauce, popped them in the oven, found the broom and decided that in preparation for a good mopping, the kitchen could stand a good sweep. Once she got going, it was not so bad. She began by whisking the broom up under the lower cabinets next to the floor to bring out the dirt from the crevices.
She continued on with this ritual-like routine for some time, then began working her way, sweeping all the dirt, along with hair, a couple of rubber bands, and a toothpick or two, to the center of the room, swooped it up in the dust pan, tossed it in the trash, and sat down.
Now, some would choose to have themselves placed in a furnace and burned to a crisp until there is nothing left but ashes. Ashes rubbed in between the middle finger and fore thumb, if you will, simply reduce into smaller form, and become invisible to the naked eye, nonetheless, still here.
Uncle Jim's socks are still in the dryer. The electric bill needs to be paid. The stuffed Christmas stockings still hang near the fireplace for the coming holiday season, and in the spring, the birds will be waiting near the birdfeeder for their morning feeding.
If there are no prior arrangements made, everybody gets together to decide how they will dispose of the body. Suddenly, Uncle Jim becomes a product, and it is lying on a table, in the same building, but in another room. He becomes a pivot point for the makings of a sale, all according to size and preference. We all have to make a living and somebody has to do the job.
The priest reads an inscription left by the one not seen. It reads: Are you going to run head strong, full speed, knocking everything down that moves in your path, until finally, you reach some sort of supposed destiny?
Is this when you will begin to relax, smile, enjoy those around you, and live your life? I have news for you. You have already lived it, but you were so busy looking straight ahead, so busy seeking the supposed destiny that you did not notice. After many years this is what I would have said to myself long ago for this is one hard lesson I learned. There is no turning back to yesterday.
The words enhanced the moans of those above the ground, clothed in black. For each one had a memory. Each one had experienced life with the one not seen. Now they were in black just as he is in black, but his blackness is different. His will not remove at the end of the day. His cannot change as those above the ground, clothed in black. Forever more, he will lie beneath the ground, unlike those above the ground, clothed in black.
What would you say then? About this peculiar formless existence called death.
