A Mortician's Journey

   Hi, my name is Aaron, and I'm a mortician. When people hear that, they make sure to make their opinion clear to me, “ What a strange life choice for a 26-year-old man.” But It feels right to me. I don’t quite remember the day that I chose to study mortuary science. I do, however, easily remember the reason - plenty of deaths in my family.  I've been to more funerals than a little bit.

   I’m one year younger than my brother Elerby. He and I don’t have a lot of cousins within our age range, on my mother’s side of the family. When I was five years old, a few of those cousins were in the upper echelons of middle age years and they knew, all too well, how to make a meal out of pork chops and hard liquor like nobody’s business. Consequently, they were dropping like flies tied to anchors. By the time I was twelve years old, I had already paid respects at six funerals.

   Let’s go back to my first funeral…well, the first that I can recall vividly. Auntie Dee – who was my cousin that was so much older than I, that it was more respectful to call her auntie than cousin – found out, fatally so, that you can only play chicken with your pacemaker with gravies, pies, cigarettes and spirits for so many times before your pacemaker gives you the middle finger and sends you to the forever missing place.  Her funeral was held at Tenor's Funeral Parlor, on Henry Street, on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.  

   Although it took us only an hour to get there from Brooklyn, we still arrived late. I was all right with that. Funerals bored and scared me at the same time. I wanted to arrive as late as possible. I was hoping no one would notice the latecomers. But I knew they would. They always noticed the late comers, and the person dressed in red.  Lord forbid you walk into the funeral late and dressed in red! Anyway, the point is, we were late, but still early enough to view the body.  

   Now, I was only eight years old but as I remember, I didn’t even like looking at Auntie Dee when she was on two feet. She was a mountain – not in the sense of being a majestic, thing of beauty; nothing serene and picturesque about her; she wasn’t comforting and sturdy. Instead, she was what was left of the mountain after all of that good stuff was removed – she was big and rough around the edges! She was loud and really enjoyed spirits, and food, and men, and cussin’. She was a mountain that men climbed whenever she was drunk enough. Her rolls of heavy had a way of dancing when there was no music. But two things can be true; the second thing is, I loved her so much!  

   She loved life, which made her beautiful to me. She loved me and she loved Elerby. She made sure we were never sad about anything when we were in her presence. And she liked to feed us, and show us off to her friends, and kiss us; and she never missed a chance to say she loved us. She always loved us. I wish I had another like her.

   Anyway, after a brief session of back-and-forth prodding between me and Elerby, trying to decide who’s going to view the body first, our parents sent us both up to approach the body. This was the part of the funeral that I hated. I was used to the sobbing, wailing adults; that was easy – I was a kid and no one expected me to do any comforting. I was okay with seeing the older folks go into holy convulsions on the way down the aisle to view the body – that was better than Saturday morning cartoons! But the one thing that I was never prepared for was the viewing – not of the body, rather the viewing of me.  

   I knew there was no way for me to take that walk down the aisle, to view the body, without every adult in the church thinking it was the saddest thing in the world. I could feel their stares, hear their whispers, hear them shifting in their seats to watch me, and worst of all, I could feel their pity. It pissed me off! I wasn’t as fragile as they thought I was. In fact, I was more bored than sad.

   Before we even made it down the aisle, to Auntie Dee’s body, Uncle George plucked Elerby from the aisle. He hugged him and sobbed all over him. I could see Elerby’s face crushed into Uncle George’s skinny chest. He was trying to push away but Uncle George must have thought he was trying to get to Aunt Elsie so poor old Elerby was passed around the pews like a juicy church rumor.  

   I stopped and looked in awe at the audacity of Uncle George taking away my one reason for making this walk even close to bearable. Uncle George had taken out my comrade in action. Elerby was my buffer from the eyes on the right side of the church. With Elerby there, I had someone to share the pain with. Hadn’t Uncle George ever heard that misery loves company? How could he do that to me? I was left to finish the walk alone. Now, all eyes were on me.  

   I thought I could almost hear muffled cries from Elerby, “It’s too late for me. Go on without me. Tell Auntie Dee that I’ll miss her. You can do it, Aaron. Do it for us both.” So I marched on.

*

   There she was, still the center of attention, even as she lay there quiet and unmoving in death. Damn, she was good! “Young man, who was she to you,” the Pastor asked me. He stood next to me with his back to the family. He leaned to the side and waited for my response.

   “She was my Auntie Dee. She died,” I said. That’s what I told the pastor who was facilitating Auntie Dee's funeral services. I told him that the dead lady, whom he was about to eulogize, had died.

   “You probably don’t realize this, son, but she’s happier where she is now. I grant it, happier than she’s ever been before.” Then his voice rose, “She’s gone home, young one,” he said in a matter-of-fact pitch.

   “That’s right Pastor! That’s right Pastor! Tell that baby the truth. Let him know he don’t need to cry!” I wasn't crying.  

   “We got a shoulder over here for you, Aaron,” someone yelled out. It sounded like my crazy cousin Vanessa.

   “Praise Him! Let Him see the babies through this tough time like He seen Dee clean ‘cross those clouds. Have mercy,” someone else yelled out. The whole church started clapping. I heard people calling for me. I ignored them. I wasn’t a disrespectful kid or anything, it’s just that I suddenly became fascinated with Auntie Dee's new look.

   “Pastor. Who dressed my auntie for today?”

   “Well, we have a small staff of very experienced morticians who did their best to make sure your auntie was the star of the show. As in life, so shall she be in passing. Why do you ask? Are you unhappy with the job that they’ve done?”

   “I don’t know. I mean, look at her. Did you know her before she died?”

   “I knew her from our church parties and family dinners at your grandma’s house. She looked happy then, as well as now. Don’t you think so,” he asked.

   “If you knew her then you know she wasn’t a very pretty woman but she’s very pretty today.  I don’t know if I’m unhappy because she’s so pretty and that’s not how I remember her or if I’m happy because she's so pretty and that’s how I get to remember her.”

   “Son, you need to remember your auntie in the way that suits you best,” he said.

   I stood there silent for a few seconds. I’d always thought that it would be great if Auntie Dee's face matched her inner beauty and zest for life. The pastor put his hand on my shoulder, I looked up at him and said, “I’ve decided. I like the job you guys did. I like her pretty and the center of attention. Thanks, Pastor.” Then I leaned over and hugged her. I kind of felt that the dead needed someone to touch them one last time…affectionately, you know; something to take with them along the ride.

   At that point, my parents walked up to the front of the church to bring me back to my seat. My mom looked worried. “Are you ready to sit down, baby?” I wasn't. I'd given Auntie Dee something to take with her, but I needed something to take, too. I was never going to see her again!

   I asked my mom for her disposable camera. “Aaron, you're not going to take a picture are you,” she asked while she rustled through her purse. “I have to mom. The dead take our love with them. I need something to take with me. Please!”

   She smiled at me in a way that showed me she was surprised to hear me be so in touch with my feelings. She passed me her camera.

   “How does this thing work, Mom? Never mind. I got it.”

   “I can take the picture for you, Aaron,” she offered.

   “No thanks, Mom. This is between me and my Auntie.” I leaned into the casket, put my face near Auntie Dee's, looked into the camera and snapped my first funeral photo of many to come years later.

   “Thanks, Auntie Dee. I love you...Oh, and Elerby does, too!”