The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Communication

"Invalid Entry" 

I've been looking for signs everywhere: in the corners of the room where there is no light, in the three o'clock blackness which is supposedly suitable for that kind of communication, in the way the house creaks and sighs. I've heard and seen nothing, and I can't decide if this displeases me or not. I want to believe in something else, that's fact, but why I do I have no idea. I've been looking for signs of his mother since yesterday, a quick flash of blondish, whitish hair, a little glare from her glasses. My parents swear my grandfather came to them the day after his funeral, that they both saw him in the house while in different rooms, and they described his outfit exactly the same way. I wanted to believe them, but there's a cynic in here. I'm a doubter in believer's clothing.

Did she have something to say that wasn't said before it all went black? Any regrets, doubts or sentimental offerings?

The arrangements at the funeral home were simple. We arrived and were greeted by a solemn gentleman who knew who we were right away (probably our license plate as we live in a different province than M's mother did). He was kind, had warm brown eyes which smiled even when he didn't, and his voice was soft, but I got the feeling it wasn't deliberately so. A straightforward cremation, without bells or whistles. It couldn't get much easier, he'd said, but he winced slightly at the insensitivity of the remark, which M. and I had found no offense in. Her wedding rings were in a sealed plastic bag, and M. showed them to the wee one (who had no idea where we were since we told her we were doing 'business' for her grandmother), telling her that one day, they'd be hers. The wee one excitedly showed me the rings which I'd seen so many times before, wrapped around a skeletal finger. They're beautiful, though, different than what one may expect from a woman who married in the fifties. The engagement ring does not boast a diamond, but it is instead a black band with a gold pattern etched into it. It's understated yet striking, and is very much in line with what one might expect his mother would have preferred. She always wore it, even though she'd officially left her husband thirty-seven years ago. On the death registration she will be listed as a 'widow', even though she'd not seen her husband since 1971. I thought this was a little odd, but then again, they never divorced and she was collecting his pension. A bizarre situation, but then again, they were both a little unorthodox.

I wondered why they gave up on one another, whether they did love one another after all but could not reconcile their own stubborn natures to allow the marriage space to work. She never spoke of him, M. told me, did not even have a reaction when his father died, only emitting a quiet 'Thank you for telling me' before hanging up the phone on her grieving son. I wondered if she'd ever told anyone how she really felt about the man she'd married, if she missed him or regretted her decision to leave him for good. She never confided anything about the situation to M., leaving him to draw his own conclusions, and I wonder if this was the right thing for her to do. Surely, it would have been better to let him know why he was moved from home to home in three different countries before the age of fourteen. Did she not think it was his business?

I used to hope that in her state of confusion in the later years that she might let something slip, perhaps a telling anecdote which might allow M. the opportunity to connect the dots, but she never did. The strokes may have distorted her memory, but it did nothing to weaken her resolve. It frustrates M., the holes in the story, but he says that she would have considered it rude of him to ask for more information.

I'm an open person, I think. I do not find it hard to talk about my life and maybe it's my way of rebelling against my introverted nature, or maybe it's a little bid for attention, but basically it just feels honest. I have nothing to hide, even though I may occasionally play on certain details which make me come off a little more favourable, but generally, I hold nothing back. This is why I find it so strange that his mother took all of her secrets with her, not leaving even one for him to play with. Didn't she want to relieve herself of any kind of pent up guilt? Did she not want to justify her actions? I sometimes have trouble remembering that not everyone is like me, not everyone is ready to give up the details. I can't decide if she felt they were unimportant, or if she was just fiercely private, but no matter what, she was entitled to hold them close and take them along into the forever after. Her life, her stories, and if she'd felt like communicating she would have.

M. decided to have her put into an urn. It was spontaneous decision, made right there in the funeral home and the director was surprised by this, somehow became befuddled when M. suggested looking at what was available. In his thick, French accent he asked 'You want an urn? You are not wanting just a cree-may-shon?'. It took a few seconds for him to understand that M. didn't just want the plastic bag of his mother's remains, that he wanted some sort of dignified ossuary which would serve as a proper testament to her until he figures out what to do with her. I said nothing, but could feel myself tensing at the prospect of having her on my mantlepiece, which is a little bit unsettling. We went to the enormous case full of vases and receptacles and of course, when M. asked me which one I preferred I went for the Limoges vase, not knowing it was the most expensive (nearly $1000, for a vase). I was thinking of esthetics because this will be in my house, for godsake, and it's weird enough without the actual urn being hideous. M. wouldn't hear of it, though, and he was quite right. There is nothing special about an urn, folks. They're just pots to put people in. After looking through the case for a few minutes, M. settled on a marble/granite square container which will have a plaque with her name and the dates on it, as well as some leaves affixed to it (she loved nature). I'm not sure how I feel yet about her being in the house, but I'm trying to get over it. I reason it out by thinking of how many fingernails I've lost over the years, how many places they've ended up, and how nothing in me has been left behind with them. They're just...fingernails. It's disgusting in one way, but benign in another, and I'm trying to find a sense of peace in thinking that she'll be 'happier' with us, which is not working, by the way. He did ask me if I was okay with it, and I said yes. I'm just going to have to deal with it.

She arrives by courier by the end of next week.

I'm so not answering the door. I can just imagine how freaked out I'll be to accept the package before yelling out, 'Michael, your mother's here!'. Just before I throw up.

It will be fine with me, I think, if she doesn't find a way to communicate.

~sigh~

The more I think about this, the less comfortable I am, which is a little silly, right?

Maybe I should start drinking more, that might help.