His smile was no longer, just a frown, but why not a glorious smile? He had a mask of clean make-up on. It covered his cold thin body from head to toe. His grey hair perfectly combed like the work of insects with three days remaining to live. His bony structure punctured the newly starched white shirt and purchased black suit by an Italian designer. His frail dead hands held a rosary made of wood. The fresh colorful flowers filled the air capturing the scent of death. Such a large variety of flowers they did not even have time to burn their names into my memory. The large cranberry-red candle near the head of the coffin burned away spirits or rotting flesh. His veins pumped with stimulants of formaldehyde. To make him last longer, or at least until his burial the next morning.

The busy wall-paper pattern must be a great distraction. Makes everyone forget why the Priest is there and that a dead body is just at the front of the room. Makes people forget about the bouncing child on the imported sofa. I can see a cheap tissue box next to every finely upholstered chair in the room. But I do not see any trash can in sight.

The women with mustaches and the men with overweight problems, all these family and friends who I have not seen in years nor do I care to see; they all have problems with invading my personal space. I keep moving away but I bump into the fresh flowers. I can’t move further; I might bump the wooden box of thousands of dollars.

Amongst the laughter here are a few odd things I heard at the viewing:

“He’s gay!”

“Malcom X”

“Tennis”

“Penis”

and

“I felt threatened by your mother”

© 2001 David Greg Harth

01.02.20.03:24:10 @ 296 NYC