Writing prompt: On the Eve of the Funeral
She was at college when she got the call. It was before cell phones so early in the morning she was called to the office and told to call home. Her brother had died during the night. Though he had been in a coma for 536 days, it still came as a shock.
Come home!!! With barely any time to pack, she had to secure a ride, get to Western Union to obtain money for a plane ticket, and get to the airport.
Her dad picked her up at the airport. Never had he looked so ashen. Not after the accident, not during the agonizing year and a half her brother had lain, silent, staring, unresponsive. Just a baby--13 at the time of the accident, 15 at the time of death. Nothing much was said on the way home for what could anyone say?
Walking into her house, she became enveloped in the palpable sadness, the pall that pervaded every inch of the home. The home that had once held memories of happy Christmases, family dinners, playful times. All erased now by a stultifying melancholy that was like a slap in the face.
On the eve of the funeral, the family solemnly made its way to the horrifying ordeal known as the wake. The funeral home: Gloomy, macabre, lurid. He was to be cremated so there was no coffin. The dead little boy lay on a table, in a red vinyl bag zipped up to his mid chest. No one really came because it was so very sad, such a protracted ordeal. Plus the family wanted some measure of privacy.
She stared at her little brother for a long time. It looked like a caricature of him. A little boy. Blond hair, eyes sewn shut. Complexion waxy, but it had been waxy after 536 days laying still. This was all that what was left. A body on a slab, zipped in a vinyl shroud. No one was crying for so many tears had been shed that it was irrelevant by that time. She wanted to see some indication that he was at peace, but there was none that she could see. Just a cold body--a corpse--how she hated that word.
The ghoulish mortician urged the boy's parents to bid their farewells. How does a parent do this? Hastily, they did so. They had said goodbye long ago, really. The other brother said his goodbyes. The sister stood by, staring, ruminating.... No one had noticed, but she had brought her tattered, worn stuffed dog, hers since she was a baby, something she slept with even then, at the age of 20. When no one was looking, she tucked the stuffed dog into the bag beside her brother, hoping it would be cremated with him. Might give him some measure of peace. Might send some of her with him. It obviously made no sense, but she had to do something.
As they left to go, all walking woodenly toward the door, she turned back one last time. They were zipping up the bag, zipping it over his face. It was the first time pure emotion flooded through her. She wanted to run and slap the wax-hearted mortician--stop him. He'd suffocate, don't zip the bag. Of course, that was ridiculous. Her mother turned to look at her. She didn't want her mother to witness what she had seen so, now shaken to the core, she walked out the door of the funeral home.
Tears were welling up in her eyes but she held them in--she had become a master of that. Of course, this image presented itself in her dreams for years to come.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
HOW EMPATHY FOR SILDA RUINED AN OTHERWISE GLORIOUS POLITICAL SCANDAL
When the Eliot Spitzer story broke, someone sent me a link; at first, I thought it was a joke. When I realized it was true, I was incredulous. Why do things like this happen? It’s incomprehensible.
I will admit right up front, like many are ashamed to do, that I LOVE nothing more than a good political scandal. I mean, it’s beyond shocking to see brilliant people who have dedicated their lives to attaining high political offices only to be toppled by—let’s face it—it’s always sex. And with Spitzer, not only prostitute sex, but he brazenly flouted a slew of other laws as well.
That said, to see those with such great hubris get up and lamely apologize—I’m sorry, it just doesn’t get any better. So I hear about last week’s 11:30 resignation press conference and actually timed my day around this event. I planned to be at the gym on the treadmill a bit before, during the conference, and afterward to hear the reaction.
OF course, he was late so I can thank Eliot for making me run 4 instead of my usual 3.5 miles but I was aquiver—energized—with anticipation. The car chase a la OJ, the helicopters, the entourage, the ride of shame; manna for a political scandal junkie.
So he steps up to the podium, poor Silda at his side. I’m riveted; I can’t believe what I’m hearing as he speaks. Again, I am floored: the hubris, the disingenuous apology, the unmitigated gall to talk about his future working for the good of humankind. Good God, fabulous stuff.
But there by his side, putting a major damper on my excitement, stands poor Silda. Now, I am a woman, and I was surprised when Hillary stood by Bill after his unforgivable and…well, just completely tacky… affairs. But there was no doubt she was accustomed to these types of escapades (Gennifer Flowers—actually made a friend buy Penthouse; Paula Jones—loved that one; even Kathleen Wilkie.) But somehow you know Hillary would kick his ass in the long run, so I didn’t feel empathy toward her.
But Silda! Standing there looking truly stricken. Unsure of what to do. She gave that sort of pathetic, enigmatic smile before her scoundrel husband began his speech. I found myself feeling sad. The thrill of the scandal is now gone. I can’t enjoy it. Here I am running on the treadmill, honest to God, feeling like I was going to cry.
People discuss Silda and many condemn her behavior. But who can judge (obviously just about everyone.) It’s such a tragedy (well, except that she’s gorgeous, has a Harvard Law Degree, and will likely whip him to pieces in the divorce); but for the meantime, she’s the mother of three girls with a cheating husband who not only betrayed her and her family but publicly humiliated them in the worst way.
So, while I was not happy that the whole Silda factor lessened my enjoyment of this otherwise deliciously disastrous affair (Lov Gov, Up Spitz’s Creek—perfect), I realized this is not only a tragedy to amuse those of us who somehow revel in the misery of others, but is, at its core, a family torn apart.
Eliot Spitzer had such great potential, I admired him greatly and had a friend who worked closely with him; she was devastated. So many people were let down by his asinine, risky, and completely outrageous behavior.
I actually think this has ruined my love of political scandals altogether. What will amuse me now? Conspiracy theories? Britney Spears? Brangelina? Geez!
I will admit right up front, like many are ashamed to do, that I LOVE nothing more than a good political scandal. I mean, it’s beyond shocking to see brilliant people who have dedicated their lives to attaining high political offices only to be toppled by—let’s face it—it’s always sex. And with Spitzer, not only prostitute sex, but he brazenly flouted a slew of other laws as well.
That said, to see those with such great hubris get up and lamely apologize—I’m sorry, it just doesn’t get any better. So I hear about last week’s 11:30 resignation press conference and actually timed my day around this event. I planned to be at the gym on the treadmill a bit before, during the conference, and afterward to hear the reaction.
OF course, he was late so I can thank Eliot for making me run 4 instead of my usual 3.5 miles but I was aquiver—energized—with anticipation. The car chase a la OJ, the helicopters, the entourage, the ride of shame; manna for a political scandal junkie.
So he steps up to the podium, poor Silda at his side. I’m riveted; I can’t believe what I’m hearing as he speaks. Again, I am floored: the hubris, the disingenuous apology, the unmitigated gall to talk about his future working for the good of humankind. Good God, fabulous stuff.
But there by his side, putting a major damper on my excitement, stands poor Silda. Now, I am a woman, and I was surprised when Hillary stood by Bill after his unforgivable and…well, just completely tacky… affairs. But there was no doubt she was accustomed to these types of escapades (Gennifer Flowers—actually made a friend buy Penthouse; Paula Jones—loved that one; even Kathleen Wilkie.) But somehow you know Hillary would kick his ass in the long run, so I didn’t feel empathy toward her.
But Silda! Standing there looking truly stricken. Unsure of what to do. She gave that sort of pathetic, enigmatic smile before her scoundrel husband began his speech. I found myself feeling sad. The thrill of the scandal is now gone. I can’t enjoy it. Here I am running on the treadmill, honest to God, feeling like I was going to cry.
People discuss Silda and many condemn her behavior. But who can judge (obviously just about everyone.) It’s such a tragedy (well, except that she’s gorgeous, has a Harvard Law Degree, and will likely whip him to pieces in the divorce); but for the meantime, she’s the mother of three girls with a cheating husband who not only betrayed her and her family but publicly humiliated them in the worst way.
So, while I was not happy that the whole Silda factor lessened my enjoyment of this otherwise deliciously disastrous affair (Lov Gov, Up Spitz’s Creek—perfect), I realized this is not only a tragedy to amuse those of us who somehow revel in the misery of others, but is, at its core, a family torn apart.
Eliot Spitzer had such great potential, I admired him greatly and had a friend who worked closely with him; she was devastated. So many people were let down by his asinine, risky, and completely outrageous behavior.
I actually think this has ruined my love of political scandals altogether. What will amuse me now? Conspiracy theories? Britney Spears? Brangelina? Geez!
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
CORRECTION: EMO MOM ROCKS PHYSICS PROJECT
Read below entry: Just got information back that I got a 100 percent on the physics catapult!!! Okay, he did create the tension and all that but it would never have worked without the proper sound, firm, solid foundation. It's sort of a metaphor for how I've aced parenting in general. (Thank goodness many will never meet my children to test that statement!)
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
MOM ACES A PHYSICS PROJECT
Oh, what a relaxing weekend. The boys were with their father, I went to a Broadway show, shopped, went to a movie, did whatever I pleased. I confess, I do miss them when they leave, however, after a few hours of uninterrupted peace, I begin to unwind, stop, breathe, think about that oft-neglected person: Me.
However, like a good Honeymoon, (I hear some are); all good things come to an end. As I was driving home from the mall on Sunday, I get the frantic call from my teenager: HELP! I need to built a catapult for physics tomorrow.
A WHAT?
A catapult. This is a constant dilemma around this house: huge projects started late into the night before. I mean, am I the only mother in Home Depot at 10 pm on occasion buying a handle for an Egyptian War Hatchet? Perhaps. Anyway, we’ve actually progressed because my son, no kidding, actually called the local hobby shop to ask about catapult making supplies. So he tells me I MUST pick them up by 5. Of course, I am on the highway and it’s approximately 4:45.
This is when all the internal parental conflicts occur: The “right” thing, of course, would be to tell him he waited too long and insist he go to physics without the catapult and have him face the consequences. Teach him an important lesson. Of course, he is a junior in high school and it is so ingrained in my maternal head that this year will make or break his entire future that I have approximately fifteen minutes to weigh teaching him a lesson against ruining his entire life…. So of course, I speed up and head off to the hobby shop.
The whole ordeal, busting in the door right at 5, having to figure out what he needs, etc., is stressful and infuriating but, $50 later, off I go with catapult making materials and a directions sheet.
Now, I have to say here that being the mother of boys, manual projects, from collages, posters, freaking dioramas, are just not things at which most boys excel. My boys are brilliant, of course, and do their homework and such by themselves, but I must confess that I myself have done a diorama or two just because I truly feel that if my children grow to be adults deficient in collage making, I can’t sweat that. I honestly think I can live with it.
So, an hour after I return home, the catapult materials are spread all over the desk, he’s cursing, swearing, can’t get anything to fit, has the wood glue everywhere, is making an increasingly huge mess and finally I kick him out and build the thing myself. Of course, I am not proud of this but I know the majority of kids just buy such things from students who had made them in year’s past. So, whatever….. Once built, he must adjust the tension and actually make the thing work, so all I REALLY did was build the foundation. Give me a break! We all know it was destined to happen this way.
The next day, so he bounds in from school saying “his” catapult worked just fine and he aced the project. I feel a certain sense of pride. Another project well executed.
Next up: A mousetrap car. Wonder how I will built that??
However, like a good Honeymoon, (I hear some are); all good things come to an end. As I was driving home from the mall on Sunday, I get the frantic call from my teenager: HELP! I need to built a catapult for physics tomorrow.
A WHAT?
A catapult. This is a constant dilemma around this house: huge projects started late into the night before. I mean, am I the only mother in Home Depot at 10 pm on occasion buying a handle for an Egyptian War Hatchet? Perhaps. Anyway, we’ve actually progressed because my son, no kidding, actually called the local hobby shop to ask about catapult making supplies. So he tells me I MUST pick them up by 5. Of course, I am on the highway and it’s approximately 4:45.
This is when all the internal parental conflicts occur: The “right” thing, of course, would be to tell him he waited too long and insist he go to physics without the catapult and have him face the consequences. Teach him an important lesson. Of course, he is a junior in high school and it is so ingrained in my maternal head that this year will make or break his entire future that I have approximately fifteen minutes to weigh teaching him a lesson against ruining his entire life…. So of course, I speed up and head off to the hobby shop.
The whole ordeal, busting in the door right at 5, having to figure out what he needs, etc., is stressful and infuriating but, $50 later, off I go with catapult making materials and a directions sheet.
Now, I have to say here that being the mother of boys, manual projects, from collages, posters, freaking dioramas, are just not things at which most boys excel. My boys are brilliant, of course, and do their homework and such by themselves, but I must confess that I myself have done a diorama or two just because I truly feel that if my children grow to be adults deficient in collage making, I can’t sweat that. I honestly think I can live with it.
So, an hour after I return home, the catapult materials are spread all over the desk, he’s cursing, swearing, can’t get anything to fit, has the wood glue everywhere, is making an increasingly huge mess and finally I kick him out and build the thing myself. Of course, I am not proud of this but I know the majority of kids just buy such things from students who had made them in year’s past. So, whatever….. Once built, he must adjust the tension and actually make the thing work, so all I REALLY did was build the foundation. Give me a break! We all know it was destined to happen this way.
The next day, so he bounds in from school saying “his” catapult worked just fine and he aced the project. I feel a certain sense of pride. Another project well executed.
Next up: A mousetrap car. Wonder how I will built that??
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