The same funeral home, the same priest, almost the same family. My mother, her brothers and sisters, now orphaned. Last time it was their father — he was ashes by the time I saw him again. He wanted to be spread in Frances Slocum — we’d go fishing there; but my uncle didn’t want to do that, neither did grandma — she wanted him buried with her; I guess they didn’t want to let go. So, in front of me in the casket sits the little black urn we’d call grandpa — or dad, that’s what my grandma called it (him… sorry). When my brother and I were in her beeping hospital room overlooking the Wilkes-Barre cemetery, she choked out where’s dad? asking him to take her away, to take her home. Are you asking for Dave? (our father), we knew she wasn’t. My brother was the only one brave enough to speak. In shock, I prayed it wouldn’t happen now, not with me in the room, not without my mother here. Her affliction was unexpected — stage four cancer in the liver and pancreas, not even the lungs (she was an avid smoker). My mother hated how cigarette smoke haunted their house; but I didn’t, it reminds me of grandma and the poem I wrote for her when I was six: violets are red/roses are blue/I love you. To my embarrassment she kept it on the refrigerator, along with smiling pictures of my aunts and uncles, cousins and siblings. After the hospital visit we knew what was coming, we just didn’t know when: I’ll give it a month… my brother started the car, it was three days. Now we’re back here: the viewing room, with its floral manila wallpaper; little glass bowls of mints I suck on to justify the silence; and the plastic bouquets nestled on each side of my grandparents’ new home. It is your family’s turn to say goodbye, beckoned the graying priest as he backed away and gestured toward the casket. I felt like I was intruding, like I’d wake her; I feared she’d suddenly open an eye and stare back, burning a hole in me; but the heavy concealer poorly mimicking life, poorly hiding pale death, told me the truth. She looks nice, they did a good job, croaked my mother from behind me; Yes, yes they did, reassured my father with hands on her shoulders. The casket made grandma impossibly shrink — she was only 80 pounds before she passed — I didn’t think she could get any smaller, but the white blankets covered her from the waist down and I couldn’t tell how tall she was. She wore a yellow dress — her favorite color, our favorite, her hands crossed her stomach; they would’ve stood out more, but her fingers were no longer purpled by poor circulation — there was nothing to circulate.
How long should I look? How long should I look? However long you do is the right amount of time, but I know that was a lie, because when the casket closes they are gone.
Ethan M. Capitano
Instagram: Ethanmcap