The Eternal Flames
Originally Published Spring 2023 in Issue 13.1 of The Underground
You love life. At least, you look like you did. Your face has wrinkles from laughter deeply-set, like there was never a time when you weren’t happy. Even now, with your eternal slumber beginning, you are happy and smiling. The mortician did a good job on capturing the essence of you. You are smiling, but it’s a bit softer than it was in life. Are you sad?
In the chapel room, everyone is mourning you. You are peaceful. Your hair, flowing threads of silver, is neat. Your wife smiles at this, and she makes some small comment about how that was the part of your rest that is most unlike you. You hate brushing your hair. You hate fussing over your appearance. But even so, for your wedding, you cared enough to put on a tux, shave, and put your best foot forward. Today, you look like you did on your wedding day, only much older. Your daughter can’t bring herself to come see you right now. You understand this. You don’t want her to be scared, and you definitely don’t want to frighten the grandchildren. They are so young, so tender. You want them to remember happy grandpa, smiling grandpa, playing grandpa.
You picked out your casket. The wood is dark, almost black, and the inside is a deep, lush red. You love red. Your wife, ever the doting lover, agreed to purchase a matching one when her time came. No one understands why you picked the gold print for an anatomical heart to be placed on the lid, right over where your heart would go. You want to be cremated, so that level of frivolity was unnecessary. You never told anyone why you wanted it. You just stressed that it was important. You were the one on death’s door, though, so no one argued with you. No sense in arguing with a corpse.
Soon, everyone trickles away. To your surprise, your daughter is the last one to leave the room. Her husband takes the children while she stands over you and takes your hand. That gesture makes your heart smile. She tucks a photograph under one side of your jacket. You want to see it, want her to tell you what she thought was so important. But you can’t see. And she won’t say. She leaves.
Everything is quiet in the chapel room now. The mortician and her assistant close the top of your casket. They are not as somber as your family was, but they are serious. You want to tell them to lighten up. You want everyone to lighten up. They carry you into the back, where all the cremators are. Your casket gets hauled up, and you find yourself anticipatory. This is the way you wanted it. Being stuck in a graveyard somewhere alone sounded miserable. Your ashes could be on the mantel instead, where you could watch over your family, see your grandchildren grow up and have grandchildren of their own. You want to be there for them.
Your wife is here. It surprises you, hearing her voice travel in such a dark place. You never told her to stay out of the room, and you had always assumed she wouldn’t want to be around for the flames. You thought she’d pick you up after, once she could see you in a beautiful, ornate urn. The mortician slides you into the machine, and you wait. You can’t see, but you can feel the presence of your wife and her delicate hand, a manicured finger pressing on the button. The flames rise and begin to do their work, turning you to ashes and dust. That part doesn’t hurt. Your wife wails, and her sobs don’t stop until your bones glow like embers. You want to ask her to please smile, please. Lighten up. This is the best way this could have happened. You are happy, you had a wonderful life. You are loved, and you love everyone. You are still with her.
Your bones are collected and you turn into a fine dust. Your wife’s upper lip quivers as you get transferred to your urn. It is red with beautifully lacing gold patterns. You think your new home is comfortable. The mortician brings you to your wife, and you feel her arms around you. You love her.
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