Downsizing the Dead
Posted: 07 Sep 2019, 22:04
is a balance between sacrilege
and release that begins with closing
the bedroom off, opening a window
so the spirit can vacate with some
measure of dignity and NOT get
stuck like a foil balloon in
the updraft of a ceiling fan.
For about the first week, you don't
go in, but compulsively check
just in case it really is a dream,
half expecting to see her lying
curled up with a book, smoking.
Then you designate the piles;
clothes and shoes to the women's
shelter, books and nick nacks
to Habitat, another "go through"
pile of letters, yearbooks,and
personal effects. You sit in the
floor holding each item like a medium
hoping to divine some personal
history which might have eluded
you while she was still alive.
It's hard to watch the cats, confused,
yeowling, scratching at her door.
Then the downstairs neighbor calls
all like "I really hate to bother you-
but-swear-to- God- I've-felt-her-presence-
things -have-been-moved-can-you-
please-come-down?". You don't
know whether to be offended, but
It's Shellie Mae, and well she was
her friend afterall.
Later you could kick yourself for
being so vulnerable you didn't notice
how vulnerable you were, and
Shellie Mae crying now
lights a smudge stick,
and you both trade favorite stories
between glasses of wine and
you fucked up bad, and will they
now call you a ghost- cheater?
and release that begins with closing
the bedroom off, opening a window
so the spirit can vacate with some
measure of dignity and NOT get
stuck like a foil balloon in
the updraft of a ceiling fan.
For about the first week, you don't
go in, but compulsively check
just in case it really is a dream,
half expecting to see her lying
curled up with a book, smoking.
Then you designate the piles;
clothes and shoes to the women's
shelter, books and nick nacks
to Habitat, another "go through"
pile of letters, yearbooks,and
personal effects. You sit in the
floor holding each item like a medium
hoping to divine some personal
history which might have eluded
you while she was still alive.
It's hard to watch the cats, confused,
yeowling, scratching at her door.
Then the downstairs neighbor calls
all like "I really hate to bother you-
but-swear-to- God- I've-felt-her-presence-
things -have-been-moved-can-you-
please-come-down?". You don't
know whether to be offended, but
It's Shellie Mae, and well she was
her friend afterall.
Later you could kick yourself for
being so vulnerable you didn't notice
how vulnerable you were, and
Shellie Mae crying now
lights a smudge stick,
and you both trade favorite stories
between glasses of wine and
you fucked up bad, and will they
now call you a ghost- cheater?