I.
Your parents wouldn’t let me bury you in a tree pod. Mostly your mom.
* * *
After the groundskeepers backed a truck onto the grass and poured the rest of the dirt onto your grave, the funeral director let everyone know services were now over, and invited them to the potluck dinner we were having at your aunt’s house.
My hands were covering my face. I could feel people walking past me to their cars. I didn’t want to say goodbye or thank you, or listen to whatever they had to say. Between my fingers I saw the dewy grass glistening around my scuffed dress shoes. Someone squeezed my shoulder and said into my ear, “Thiago, what do you want us to do about the flowers?”
I pulled my face out of my hands.
Propped along one side of your brand-new plot were flower arrangements hooked on metal stands. One from your job, one from your cousins in Mexico who couldn’t make it out so soon. They were originally delivered to the church, but people took it upon themselves to grab the arrangements and load them into their cars as they headed to the cemetery. And now, should they come back with us to your aunt’s house for the potluck, or stay here?
The crowd had thinned out except for a few friends and family. News cameras stayed on the opposite side of the lot, their idea of respecting our privacy while they filmed. Everyone waited for me to do something. Standing around like cows in a field. No one looking at anyone.
Someone behind me said didn’t the flowers usually stay.
“Okay,” I said. “So we just leave them here.”
Kris said the wind would blow the stands over.
“Take them off then,” I said.
But, your mom said, the groundskeepers still needed to bring the machine over to flatten the fresh soil.
But, your cousin said, didn’t the undertaker say they finished that?
The husband of one of your coworkers walked across a paved path to the next section of grass and tombstones and asked the group of guys wearing coveralls if we needed to wait for the soil machine, or if it was ever coming. People started pulling arrangements off the stands. Some bouquets weren’t hooked on, they were just tied together. People took off the flowers one by one and laid them on the grave.
“Wait,” I said, but some of them spoke only Spanish and kept laying flowers. Angel had to translate for me, which confused the hell out of your aunts and uncles because she was Black.
It occurred to me that I couldn’t go back to crying because I had to pee, which who knew peeing could outrank grief in the brain. We were all standing around like the cover to some Christian rock album. I could see in your family’s body language that they felt uncomfortable not being allowed to lay flowers down when there were flowers to be laid, and why would we drive flowers to your aunt’s house when tomorrow they would just end up in her trash, or compost.
I forget which one of your aunts was the gardener—the one who gave us a basket of tomatoes for our wedding as a gift, and we just laughed and threw them at the bridal party in the hotel parking lot—was it Tía Chiquis? Who we secretly called Tía Cheeky? Who didn’t find it all that funny when I spelled her name that way in a birthday card we gave her, only because you dared me.
Your coworker’s husband returned and said we could lay the flowers down. I was already holding the flowers people had laid down on your grave before we knew what to do with them, and now I went back to them like, you can lay these down, but they were already in the act of taking more flowers off the stands, so I was just standing there with my arms full of roses and tulips. Your mom took a couple and stuck the stems into the dirt. More people followed her lead. I couldn’t remember whose car I rode in.
* * *
I didn’t fight Diane on the funeral services, even after I told her we had already talked about it and neither of us wanted to be buried. Me and you hashed it out during one of those late-night talks couples have in bed, right before they fall asleep, or after sex.
Sex for us. I didn’t tell Diane that part either.
Talking in the dark, limbs stacked together, two rhythms of breathing and a sheen that made our skin as glossy as a lingerie commercial.
We talked about getting cremated and the surviving one jumping out of a plane and opening the urn only to have it fly back up into the engine. Or we could shoot the ashes off into space. I worried about the carbon footprint cremation left on the world, so you brought up other options like that facility where they freeze the body in a drum and then sound waves batter the blue corpse until it shatters into a million pieces, T-1000 style.
It was all about being responsible with the body we’d leave behind, like washing our cups and cake plates at the end of a party. It was easy to hypothetically donate our corpses to a class of medical school students. My luck, the kid standing over me would be studying cosmetic surgery and I end up with a nice rack. You laughed. It was easy. We assumed death was a long ways off, or that it would gradually come into our lives and we would face it together.
Weeks passed and then you tagged me in a video for this tree pod burial thing. “THIS,” you commented next to my name. The animated video showed how they placed the body in an egg-shaped capsule made of a biodegradable shell, planted a baby tree over that egg, and then filled the rest of the hole with dirt. The tree would grow and its roots would lengthen until they reached the egg, where they would leach off the body, turning it into food.
“A casket is such a waste,” you said from the back seat of our car, scrolling through your phone as I drove. It was one of those perfectly timed occasions where I had dropped off a Lyft fare downtown and you happened to be getting out of work, so I scooped you up and headed home. “They’re so expensive.”
“So you want to live on as a tree?” I said.
Through the rearview mirror, you gave me what you called your Michelle Tanner not-amused look.
The whole business of you sitting in the back seat was part of our impromptu role-playing game, where I was Tom Branson, the Irish chauffeur from your favorite show, and you were the insufferable dowager countess of the Crawley family. “Westward, Branson…” “Change lanes, Branson…” “You’re making me late, Branson.” You in the power suit you looked poured into, telling me I was being ridiculous with only your eyes.
“Do you see a giant crystal hanging off my necklace, Thiago?” you said. “Is ‘Namaste’ tattooed on my wrist? I just like the idea of my body being completely recycled. It’s a clean circle of tidiness. I think it’s satisfying the part of me that always wanted a Trapper Keeper growing up. Now, southward, Branson.”
“Yes, my lady,” and me trying not to sound too excited as I turned onto the entrance ramp, eager to get you home.
* * *
When I told Diane about the tree pod, she took it like I suggested we take you to a taxidermist and have him glue leaves to your fingers. She had already been putting money down on a burial plot next to her parents for when she passed away. Guess your stepdad was shit out of luck. Guess the way she saw it, death meant they could finally go their separate ways, the contract fulfilled. Till death do us part, honey.
She put your body into her plot and started paying for the next one over so she could be buried next to you. And she gave you the big Catholic mass you always never wanted. The priest doing his best to spin you as a child of God because we never went to church and even passed on having a priest officiate our wedding. Remember what you told me when I dragged you to a screening of The Seventh Seal? “I just don’t think about it,” you said. “We die and that’s the end. No heaven. No hell. Do not collect two hundred dollars.”
Burying you in anything but an expensive casket set Diane’s teeth on edge. What would telling her your thoughts on heaven and hell accomplish? I was trying to think like you, the way you navigated your mom’s feelings for when the fight was actually worth it. So, your body sat in a casket in front of an altar, for a bunch of people who didn’t matter to gawk at and pray over. My only condition was that I pay for all of it.
* * *
At the back of the church was a remembrance book where people wrote their goodbyes and condolences. I flipped through the pages as people filled the pews. Sometimes they stopped and pulled me into an embrace, assuring me we’d met before when they saw the stunned look in my eyes.
In the book, people left messages for me and for your parents. Some of them I did know. Hector, Bianca, Faust, and Lucy. Deidre hugged me and then wiped the tears off my lapel. She introduced me to her sister, saying, “This is my friend Thiago.” My friend. Before they were my friends they were your friends. The longest friendship I had before meeting you was with a leather jacket.
“My deepest condolences,” her sister said. “I can’t imagine how painful this must be for you.”
Yes, she could. They all thought they could, but they just didn’t want to admit it. People cannot bear to think there are channels of human experience that are closed off to them, that they’ll never know. People want to believe their experience is universal, that nothing’s outside their scope. That their simulation of losing their spouse is just the same as my real loss.
I could see it when I caught them looking at me. Wondering how it would be for them.
* * *
What they say: call me.
What they mean: it’s your responsibility to let me know when I have to care.
* * *
Someone with your maiden name had written a message in the book, and right below it was the squiggly handwriting of a child. It clicked in my head that this was your cousin. That cousin. The one whose two boys both had sunken Richard Ramirez eyes. It looked like the oldest one was forced to write something. He wrote, “Sory tio and tia that Vera died but life is life.”
It was like he reached into my head and turned off the spigot. Instead of wiping away tears, I was laughing. I was gripping the back of the pew. Life is life. You had to be so inexperienced and emotionally dulled by YouTube channels to point out such an obvious truth and not recognize the lack of sympathy that went into it. At a wake. Leaving it for the parents and husband of the deceased to read.
I knew right away it would have been the thing we’d have said to each other as a joke if we’d read it at someone else’s wake. Life is life. If one of us overdrew from our account. Life is life. If your mom begged you to visit her and then spent the whole time criticizing you. Life is life. If you missed the train and your phone died. Life is life. Shorthand for Shit happens, get over it.
It was the kind of empty saying people shared on social media, and if I had seen it there first it wouldn’t have registered with me, but to see it in the book triggered something. I could barely breathe. The blood was heating under my face. I could feel my chest bouncing from the suppressed laughs. People were turning around. From the front pew, Diane stood up and peeked down the aisle.
Even with you in the news, on television, your photo in countless think pieces, this kid was walking around totally unaffected by it, which meant the world at large still turned without knowing your name. Without knowing your love of amortization calendars and kettlebells and the burned cheese parts sticking out of the end of a quesadilla. There was kind of a comfort in that obscurity. Regardless of how it felt now, the world would sooner or later have its foot on the gas pedal, on to the next bombing, the next shooting, the latest outrage, and we’d be forgotten. No more interview requests. No more private messages from strangers asking me to watch the tribute video they made of you. No more having to watch what I said when someone shoved their phone in my face. We’d finally be left to ourselves.
But seriously fuck that kid.
* * *
I figured you’d want your mom not to hate me more than you’d care how you were buried, so I gave her no pushback. I emailed her all the photos I had of you because she needed a recent one for the marble burial marker. It would say your name, and beneath that, Loving Daughter, Cherished Wife. And below that, Until We Meet Again.
* * *
Mourners crowded around the tables of food in your aunt’s house, making their plates. As with every family event, packs of children were running through the house. I could hear them from the yard, running and laughing and getting yelled at to stop. Your friend Olivia rounded the corner with a plate of food and found me sitting on the back steps.
“Hungry?”
I raised the beer to show her I was in the middle of something. She asked if that was from Terrence, because he was inside with two beers and looking for me.
So this was going to be the next step. Your friends all trying to furl me into their group, me functioning as your stand-in.
More of them filed out into the yard, thinking this was acceptable, because why on earth would I want to be alone. Let the older folks stay inside while the cool kids hang with the widower. An impromptu storytelling session happened. One by one they shared stories of you, personal experiences, from your time at the University of Chicago, the monthlong friends trip through Europe, the late-night phone calls, the so many times you talked one of them off a ledge without you knowing it. All memories of just you and them, round after round of claims made on you, their memories of you. And when it got to me and I kept the beer up to my lips for an uncomfortably long time, they skipped over me and continued.
One story was about how elbowy you got on the dance floor if strangers moved too close. “Vera loved dancing,” someone behind me said. “That was so her.”
I wanted to swing my beer around and smash the bottle on whoever’s face. You loved dancing, but you weren’t some EDM kid thrusting the air in your purple leotard and blowing a neon whistle every weekend.
Did they know about the emotional scarring U of C left you with? Did they even notice how much you hated traveling with some of these “friends,” because all they wanted to do was go clubbing through Europe, and all you wanted was to eat street food and hit as many churches and museums as you could?
They were so quick to define you, to pin you down to something. Who didn’t like music? What dead person didn’t have a great smile? A great laugh? No one was calling you these things when you were alive. Alive, you got to be just you. Dead, they needed to encapsulate you, harness you into a favorite movie they could buy, a favorite motto they could tattoo. No one got that you were those things primarily because you were you, not because they made you.
We never lined up on any of that kind of stuff. I went to a community college, hated dancing, and spent the least amount of time and effort needed to still be able to call people my friends. But we still worked together somehow, like two different animals that learned to hunt as a team. You were you and I was me and there was this thing between us.
What about this hasn’t been seen in a billion other people? When haven’t these feelings cycled through another person, from a loss just like this? When haven’t men collapsed to their knees on crisp cemetery grass and belted out big throaty Godfather III sobs?
These feelings weren’t new to the world, but that didn’t stop it from feeling like they were. These same friends would later text me a line from some book or a quote from a movie that was supposed to comfort me, atheist friends messaging me about unexplained phenomena in physics and quantum mechanics that were supposed to prove how no one knew what anything meant. Bob Dylan lyrics. Books on reincarnation. You have to listen to this song, Thiago. It’ll help. And sure, I could hang platitudes and facts on myself like ornaments, but it still didn’t help. So what if the universe was a hologram? So what if this was all in our heads? The points being made never stuck. I couldn’t synthesize this knowledge, but even worse, I couldn’t even regurgitate it to at least convince myself I knew something about life, or death, or meaning. Something inherent. Something irreducible. With every moment the floor shifted under my feet. The world was pressed against my nose, too close to see. I had no story to follow. My favorite character was gone.
* * *
The hours ticked into the double digits and back into singles. Most of the guests were gone except a core group of friends and cousins who were still drinking and dancing in the basement. If it was one of them who’d died, they reasoned, Vera would have been on the dance floor all night. The nauseous green basement tile was now a dance floor. House music was pumping out of an Itza your aunt kept in the kitchen. They plugged it in downstairs and asked Itza to play Green Velvet and formed a circle, dancing in their black suits and skirts, hugging the wood-paneled walls, their heels getting caught in the grout.
White light spun around Itza’s orb shape, the teeth-kicking bass to “Flash” started to pump into the basement, and my palms began to sweat from thinking about the time we did ecstasy and this song played.
“I can see the music,” you said, playing with your fingers, waving them in front of your face.
“Me too,” I said. “The bass is making me have to take a shit.”
One of your friends, the one with purple highlights, opened the circle and waved me in. They all did. I waved them off. Something was receding within me. Beer was caking to my tongue.
My thoughts synced with the beat of the music. Drums cracked, and projected on the screen in my head was this: She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone. I could feel your absence like a pulse running up and down the right side of my body where you were supposed to be sitting, your head on my shoulder.
The circle cheered and opened again when they saw me get up and walk toward them, but quieted down as I kept walking, heading up the stairs.
A silver lining to your death: I didn’t have to feel things anymore. Your friends’ feelings in that moment did not register on any level. That part of my life was over. The part that could care for another person, invest in them, it froze and then sheared off like a glacier, into the dead ocean of things I couldn’t access anymore. It felt like freedom, actually.
I stepped outside through the side door where cars lined the driveway. It was blinding how black the sky was. The block was lifeless, dark windows and silence except for the muffled hum of music coming from the basement.
A man named Artie and his Toyota Camry were ten minutes away. I put my phone in my pocket and headed to the backyard because I knew there was a cooler next to the garage, and I wanted to get another beer while I waited. That was how I found your mom.
Copyright © 2021 by Gus Moreno
