|
In Memory of Margarette Finch
I can't stand this small town. It’s so far away from everything that matters. Nobody ever comes or goes and I think it’s screwing up the gene pool – making us all stupid. In the last few hundred years we've made about as much forward progress as a turtle trying to climb an iceberg after an oil spill. The only thing I hate more than this tiny town is when someone in it dies.
Every single time one of us drops off, we're forced to sit through the same tired speech. The pastor reminds us that in death, the one whose spirit was taken, gives us their final gift – their life. The funeral feast honors her memory and through this memory, part of her will live on in us forever. It’s just fancy talk to make an ugly truth look pretty. It works about as well as polishing poop. This pathetic gathering is just a desperate attempt to ignore the obvious scientific fact that Grandma’s dead. A dinner and lecture isn't going to keep her alive anymore than it’s going to keep my attention.
If my mother could read my mind right now, she would throttle me. She'd call me vulgar. But I'm not vulgar. This place is vulgar: this backwards place overrun with backward traditions. Don't get me wrong, I love my mother, but I’ve decided I'm not going to do this anymore.
“I'm not going to do it.”
“You don't have a choice.”
“Why not? Why can't I just opt out?”
“It just doesn't work that way, Christian. Nobody does that.”
“Well I don't want to do this anymore. I hate it. I hate everything about this dying business. Have you ever really thought about it? I mean really thought about it? Because I have, and to be honest, I think it’s sick, Ma.”
“It’s a funeral, honey. They're never truly enjoyable. But they are important. You're still young. It will be easier to understand when you're my age. Now mind your manners and eat your dinner.”
I pushed the plate away, defiantly. I had a flashback from my toddler days, refusing a plate of cooked carrots. I remembered the look on my mother’s face back then. She was mirroring that face now. But this time, I wasn’t simply refusing carrots: I was refusing a tradition. As far as she was concerned, I was literally turning my nose up at God. As if anyone in this town knew anything about God.
“You know other people don't do this, right?”
Mother shook her head. Her eyes told me I had broken her heart. After a long moment of silence, she spoke with that soft, gentle voice that she uses whenever she wants to cajole me into doing a chore I don't like or, worse, when she tries to get me to say “I love you” to her on the phone while I'm in a room with friends.
“Son, we do a lot of things other people don't do. We honor the ways of our ancestors. We choose to remember, while others forget their roots. They are who you were and they deserve your respect. That includes your Grandmother. I know you’re a fighter son, but please, do as you should. For me.”
She said the same thing to me two years ago when we lost my dear Aunt Susan. I listened to her then just as I was going to listen to her now. I never could tell her no. My mother is a sweet, persuasive woman. Besides, she was right, I was just a kid. Who was I to argue with tradition?
I pulled my plate back with my fork and studied at the cubes of unsalted meat. Not so much as a parsley garnish. It was obvious grandmother hadn't done the cooking. But this gathering wasn't about culinary artistry. It was about honoring the one whom has passed. And as mother had said: Grandma would want me to be on my best behavior.
While my mother watched on with pride, I stuck my fork into one of the cubes and drew it slowly to my mouth. I let the meat fall from the tines onto my tongue and chewed it slowly. It didn't taste good. I didn't expect it to. Grandmother, like most of the stories she told in her old age, was hard to swallow.
Cameo: Cameo's professional experience includes many years of creative writing and art/design for a large number of online gaming sites (the biggest of these being powerpets.com). She currently has a large following for her pet portrait paintings. While the pet portraits pay her bills, her love is for science fiction (writing, reading, and illustrating it). She has written and self-published a novel and a short story.
She lives in Michigan with two huskies and five cats. She has one green eye and, more interestingly, one cloudy blue eye resembling that of the old man’s from “Tell Tale Heart” by Edgar Allen Poe. This often scared the other children growing up and gave her, her own weird/unique personality. She has included a self-portrait as her image because it is cooler than any of her funky looking photographs.
Facebookand Web Site
Email: Cameo
Return to Table of Contents
|
