I Muse about Six Feet Under as I Wait to Speak at Your Funeral by Elizabeth Rosen

Rob LeBer CC



I Muse about Six Feet Under as I Wait to Speak at Your Funeral


      It’s the blue Toyota Prius that gets me every time. You’d think it’d be the Sia song played over the credits, but it’s the stupid pedestrian car. I can’t see one without thinking of those sweeping desert shots that slide away to the eternal horizon, Claire’s orange hair blowsy on the hot breeze from the open window, the ivory-colored fades to death announcements for the characters, simple, to the point. Born then. Died then. That grief was so pure, pierced through with sorrow sharp as an ice pick. The endings – the ending - so true. 
      I sit in the pew, handwritten eulogy of lies crumpled in my fist. The ink smears across the skin of my fingertips, just like your mothering did, more idea than statement, more bruise than love, and that final scene comes back to me with its intense grief. I think to myself: Where is my ice pick? Where is my desert vista, barren and empty? Where is my haunting Sia song overlaying my sorrow as I ride into the future?
      Father Jason thanks my aunt for her words and asks if anyone else would like to speak. The paper in my fist grows damp with obligation. I rise, smooth the eulogy against the podium; the wrinkles are deep. Echoing blue chasms of a painful, difficult relationship. My eyes are on you in the casket, all the judgement and unhappiness ironed from your face. You are someone else here, in the box. I could make you someone else.
      I know that the others are watching to see what I will do, those who know the truth, and those who know nothing at all. Aren’t we all fascinated with the performance of grief? The words turn to wax between my lips. I could tell the truth. There is a version of it peeking out from among the words on the paper before me. Duty cramps my hands, the room heavy with expectation. I close my eyes: I see a blue Prius pull away from the chapel, turning for the highway, the gorgeous world stretching out before it, but I’m not in it.

​


Colorwise, Elizabeth Rosen is an autumn. She mourns the loss of Tab and still wants her MTV. Her stories have appeared in journals such as the North American Review, Baltimore Review, Pithead Chapel, New Flash Fiction Review and Flash Frog. Elizabeth will alway choose Funyuns over Cheetos. Her French is atrocious, but she doesn't let that stop her. If you'd like to know more about her writing, you can check out www.thewritelifeliz.com. 


​

Anti-Heroin Chic is a sponsored project of Indolent Arts, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit fiscal sponsor. Please consider making a one-time tax-deductible donation.

donate