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Thoughts in the Funeral Home

The smell of mothballs is strong in the funeral home. The walls are a sickly green with pictures of angels and ferns. But the ferns look more like spindly hands ready to snatch you away than leafy plants. I find it disgusting. The owner of the funeral home speaks with my father. Both of them wear black but for two different reasons. My father wears black to mourn. The funeral home owner wears black to show off his Armani suit. It’s custom made, I can tell by the stitching in the lapels. Probably cost 2000 dollars, bought by the money he makes from burying the deceased. I suddenly have the urge to vomit. He says he is incredibly sorry for our loss and that he knows my grandmother will rest in peace. I roll my eyes and turn my back to him. I’ve watched enough crime shows to know he’s obligated to say that.
My grandmother won’t rest in peace. I think that’s the only thing I’m fully capable of understanding at the moment. She wouldn’t want to be buried in a cemetery next to some highway. She would want to be buried in a beautiful and secure place. Dad doesn’t comprehend that, and probably won’t until his mother is buried and it’s too late. I don’t blame him. Her death really hit him hard. I’ve only ever seen him cry once, and that was when she got really sick. The funeral home owner’s raspy voice brings me back to reality. I think he said thank you as my dad agreed to his asking price. I feel a strong obligation to punch him. But I restrain myself enough to simply glare at him.




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