Blueberry Pancakes In Eternity

I awoke in a house only occupied by me. It was too early to leave my bed. There were birds outside the window. I tried to imagine their conversations. What subjects deserved such passionate shrieks? Just as my eyes grew heavy trying to capture an extra moment’s rest, the birds’ discourse was interrupted by the ringtone dedicated to my coworker. There was no need to wonder about the subject of this communication. 

Twenty minutes later, it was 4:50 and the dawn was making its way to sunrise. In a black suit and neutral lipstick, I made my way through a residential neighborhood. The lawns were well manicured with swing sets and trampolines, still dewy from the night before. It was too early to be noticed by the children who occupied these amusements but I still felt disapproved of. The residents worked too hard to protect themselves from the reminders of death only for me to drive by in my black van bearing the symbols of a traditional undertaker.

I read the passing house numbers then backed into the driveway that corresponded to the home we had been sent to. My coworker knocked on the front door, a tired aunt opened it. She introduced us to a tired nurse, a tired mother, and a tired father. They showed us to the living room where, in a hospital bed, laid a man who could not be much older than I was. I never met him. Regardless, it seemed impossible to breathe as a demonstration of true heartbreak took place. Final goodbyes were said and last kisses were issued. Then it was time to take the man into our care. 

The drive back to the funeral home was silent. Our hearts were heavy with thoughts of loss. Never again would the man feel hot sunshine or hear the crunch of snow. Sweet food would never pass through his lips. No longer could he create life or mold it in his image. He also lost pain. The disease and the attempt to fight it left many lesions, both physical and emotional. Gone now were the nerve endings to remind him of his condition. Perhaps, he was pleased to miss out on the humiliation of failure or the misery of unwanted success.         

 The silence was interrupted when the radio started to scream about breakfast. I opened my eyes. I was in a different bed. The sheets were clean and my husband bolted up. More quick to action than I, he informed our toddler that breakfast would be ready in 22 minutes. I giggled at how perfect my life was and how our son pretended to grasp minutes and numbers. 

The three of us made pancakes with blueberries from the garden. After breakfast, I graded papers on the porch while Allen and Little Allen counted the birds in the backyard. Allen informed me that it was time to teach our son of numbers higher than three. He smiled and suggested we go for a hike through the state park an hour’s drive to the East. Perhaps there we would see four or even five birds.

After quickly packing everything we needed for our spontaneous day trip, we placed Little Allen in his car seat and took off. Allen drove the van while I attempted to finish grading. The route we took was absolutely stunning. The sun shined through the summer foliage in ways that made me feel even more grateful. Little Allen asked to play his music and everyone sang along to church hymns passed down through generations.

Allen looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. His moment of distraction coupled with the curves of the road sent us smashing through a guard rail and spinning down a hill. At the bottom, we hit a tree ending the motion. Little Allen was crying but still secured in his seat. I ached but was unafraid for my life. Allen never wore his seat belt so I was hesitant to turn my head in his direction. The fear was well placed. No human could survive the trauma of such a tumble without a seatbelt. 

To push back a flood of emotions, I tried to focus on something else. I focused on the dream. I realized now that Allen was the one I took to the funeral home. We were younger in the dream world. The lines on our faces were not yet cut and our hair untouched by strands of gray. The grieving parents in the dream were Kurt and Sara, my aggravating yet loving in-laws. How would I ever live without my husband or with the knowledge that someone’s son died because he wanted to show me his joy? 

Just as I began to cry, a calm paramedic tapped me on the shoulder and I opened my eyes. This time I was on a couch. It was my roommate, who was a paramedic in every reality. She had just come home from a lengthy shift. The roommate giggled at the number of times she had found me like this. It was the middle of the night. My computer had died on my lap as I fell asleep. I wanted so badly to finish the funeral celebrant service I had started but it is impossible to capture one's entire essence in a sitting. My roommate ushered me to bed. I was one last person to help before her day ended.

The next morning, I sat in the office of a pretentious coffee shop and finished the celebrant service along with payroll and booking the acoustic guitar players. The next few days went by smoothly and the nights went by without any memorable dreams. The open mic night went off without a hitch and the organic soaps were selling better than expected.

Finally, the day was upon me to give the celebrant service. Clad in a purple dress and red lipstick, I took to the podium. I spoke of a man who had outlived his parents. However, at 68, he did not live long enough to hold his first great grandchild. My path never crossed Allen’s until after his death but I knew so much of him. I knew that he loved blueberry pancakes and a park to the East. The first chapter of his life was marked by disease and suffering but Death lowered his scythe for some time. Allen graduated from college with honors and became a high school principal. His wife taught English and they tried their best to fix the problems of their students. The end was quick and I was tasked with the honor of honoring him. 

The service included a procession to the newest part of a historic cemetery then a short committal service. The funeral director and I passed out roses from the funeral spray. Then everyone left. The hearse driver and I remained to help the cemetery staff. We rolled up the grass colored carpet and took down the tent. The entire time I was being teased for quitting my very stable job as a funeral director for the less prestigious title of celebrant. I laughed it off because I was so happy to tell other people’s stories and sell coffee. 

Everyone’s disposition changed as a group of teenagers walked by. The cemetery staff made remarks about the worthlessness of today’s youth. Someone pointed out that they were all in black despite it being a particularly hot summer day. Clearly, that someone failed to notice most of the funeral attendants were in black, too. It took a bit of self control refrain from reminding everyone that the concept of cemeteries only being opened to funeral processions was a relatively new one. 

The gaggle of teens made their way to a white marble mausoleum. It was by no means special but had its charm. The gothic architecture and surname hand etched above the entrance spoke of opulence and the dead trying desperately not to be forgotten. The steps sinking and a hundred years worth of overgrowth told a different story. 

One of the teens peaked in through the mausoleum’s door then posed for a picture. He smiled in a way that only children can. It was clear he believed in his own immortality. Death would never come for him, he thought, not in a well tailored suit or in a cancerous growth. He was, of course, wrong.

Just as the photogenic smile trade places for a more natural one, the boy suggested to his friends that they find a place serving breakfast all day. They laughed and teased him about his undying love for blueberry pancakes and fascination with birds.