RENÉE WATSON
For Carland “Duker” Allen, Jr. 1976–2004
WEEK ONE
BLISS
I am not afraid of death.
I’m actually very comfortable with it. It’s a return to the earth where we come from. It’s an ending, but maybe a beginning too.
If I’m honest, one of my favorite places to be is the coffin display room in a funeral home. There’s something about looking at all those cocoons waiting to hold a body. Waiting to protect it, keep it from harm, keep it warm and safe.
This is what makes my classmates think I’m weird.
I’m Bliss, the girl whose family owns the only funeral home in Larch Heights, a smaller than small town in Eastern Oregon. The funeral home is also our house. So, not only am I the girl who works at a funeral home, but I am the girl who lives on top of one. I am Bliss, the girl who almost always wears black—but not because I am depressed or creepy like they assume. Black is my favorite color. It’s also our uniform for viewings, wakes, memorials, and funerals. Sometimes, but rarely, my parents wear
navy blue or charcoal gray. Always a somber color. Never any shade that evokes fantasies of island vacations or spring festivals.
We are a winter family. But not in the way that winter is cold and gloomy. We are winter in the way that we make death look beautiful, serene. Like the bare trees, the solemn-skied mornings. The hummingbirds and golden-crowned sparrows have all migrated south, and many plants are dormant. Here in this tiny Oregon town, winter is the season of dead things. But Mom always says there can be beauty even in death, and I know she is right.
The funeral home is on the first floor of our house, with its chapel, parlors, and office. The crematory and preparation rooms are in the basement. Unofficially, I’ve helped out in some capacity since I was old enough to sweep or fold programs or stand at the door and say, “Welcome to Mitchell’s Family Funeral Home.” Officially, I’ve been working as an apprentice since freshman year. When I’m not working at the funeral home, I am just home.
Our living space upstairs isn’t anything grand, just a simple house with three bedrooms. Mom keeps saying one day she’ll do a big home makeover, update everything like one of those TV home improvement shows because our house “has good bones and just needs a little cosmetic TLC.” Mom and Dad have the biggest room, next to the bathroom. I have the room down the hall across from the third room, which is used as extra office space when Mom and Dad don’t feel like going downstairs to get work done.
Like I said, nothing grand, but it’s my home and it isn’t creepy at all. My classmates don’t understand that. But for the next two weeks I don’t have to worry about them because today is the last day of school and then we’ll be on winter break, and I’ll have a whole fourteen days without snarky jokes and lingering stares.
When the bell rings, we all rush from our classrooms. The narrow hallway is crowded and loud. I head to my locker to meet my best friend, Alex, the only other girl in this school with brown skin. There aren’t that many of us. And by not that many, I mean I can count us on one hand and not even use all my fingers: me, the only Black girl in this whole entire town and Alexandria, who we all call Alex. She is Mexican and lives across the street from me with her brother, Fernando. There’s also Mateo, whose family just moved here from Idaho because his dad got a job at Union Pacific Railroad.
Alex is all smiles when she says, “Freedom! Two weeks of sleeping in and having absolutely nothing to do.”
“Speak for yourself,” I tell her. “You’re spending Christmas in Mexico City with your family. I’ll be working. You know my mom doesn’t believe in free days.” I open my locker, take out my puffy coat and put it on.
“True, true,” Alex says. But at least you won’t have to come to school.” Just as she says this, Natalie walks up to her locker, which is right next to mine. She opens it, puts her
books inside, takes out her wool coat, and slams her locker shut. She does her best not to look at Alex or me, but I know she sees us. “And at least we’ll both get a break from her.” Alex rolls her eyes and mumbles something under her breath in Spanish.
The three of us used to be best friends in elementary and middle school, but things changed. Natalie’s dad became the leading real estate agent in the area, selling houses and ranches with several acres of land and million-dollar views of the mountains and valleys. It could be a coincidence that the more money her family got, the more distant she became, and started to hang around the girls who could also wear designer clothes and whose families vacationed at Oregon’s finest ski resorts. It could be a coincidence that the more she started hanging around these new friends, the less she started hanging out with us.
I don’t know if the three of us will ever be friends again. I don’t know if I want to. Some friendships might not be worth holding on to. Some people were never real friends to begin with.
Alex and I walk down the hall, looking for Fernando, so we can walk home together. We pass Natalie and her new crew. “There goes Death’s Daughter,” one of them says.
The girl with dark brown hair says, “I bet her Christmas tree is decorated with leftover toe tags—”
“You’re right,” I yell. “And I use formaldehyde as my perfume.”
They all look shocked as if they didn’t expect me to say anything.
Alex too. She grabs my arm, walks faster, and heads outside. We see Fernando waiting at the bottom of the steps. He says hello and we make our way through the crowd. Fernando walks behind me and Alex, who are in full debrief mode. Alex laughs. “I’ve never seen that side of you. The look on their faces was priceless. I mean, they were actually speechless. And those girls always have something to say.”
Fernando chimes in, “What happened?”
Alex and I keep talking. “They think they can just say whatever, whenever, and that I’m not going to respond. Sometimes I want to do what I want to do, say what I want to say—not what people think I should do.”
Alex smiles. Big. “I like this side of you, Bliss. Maybe this should be your New Year’s resolution. To do the things you want to do, not what people expect you to do.”
“Maybe.”
Fernando walks faster to keep up with us. “What did she say? To who?”
I turn around. “Natalie.”
“Oh.” Fernando gets it. He falls back and walks slower to give me and Alex space to keep talking.
Alex says, “I just want to know why. Like, why did she just start being so . . . so . . . ugh. I just want to know why.”
Neither of us offer answers to each other. We just walk in silence. I think there isn’t just one reason but many reasons why
we’re not friends with Natalie. Maybe we grew apart because our tastes were becoming different and that’s just what happens when you know someone from age seven to seventeen. Maybe you can’t expect anyone to stay the same.
And maybe it’s true that I was too serious, always bringing up death, always asking questions about the meaning of life, wondering why we exist and what we want to do with our existence. Maybe it’s impossible to be around death all the time and not constantly think about it. Maybe just because I’ve accepted that I will die one day, that I am at peace with dying, doesn’t mean the people around me are comfortable talking about it.
And maybe I did overreact when I witnessed Natalie laughing at a joke about Mexicans that was racist and not at all funny, and absolutely about Alex’s family (even though she swore it wasn’t and couldn’t understand why I felt that a joke about Mexicans was a joke about Alex . . . because Alex is Mexican). Maybe I shouldn’t have jumped to the conclusion that if she was laughing at the things her new friends said about Mexicans, she was most likely laughing at the jokes they were making about Black people when I wasn’t around (which would mean they’d be making jokes about me ).
Maybe we should have heard her out, accepted her apology.
But maybe someone saying, “I’m sorry you took it that way . . .” and not that they are sorry for what they actually did, for what actually happened, is not an apology.
Alex interrupts my thoughts, says, “Want to go the long way today?” And we walk through a park that stretches ten blocks.
We go home this way whenever we are deep in a conversation that we have to finish or when we just need more time before going home where chores are waiting for us. Sometimes we just want to be together. The three of us, me and Alex always walking side by side, and Fernando, our shadow. Mostly he just listens, being a little brother, but he chimes in every now and then making us burst into laughter or realize something we’ve never thought of before. We all are quiet as we make our way through the park, feet walking through puddles left over from yesterday’s rain. It’s likely Alex will call me later tonight, and Mom will sigh like she always does and say, “Didn’t you two just see each other? What more could you possibly have to talk about?”
I know it’s not a real question. I think maybe Mom wishes I wanted to talk to her, be with her as much as I want to be with Alex. And it’s not that I don’t want to spend time with Mom, it’s just that ever since I turned seventeen, Mom has been even more strict, even more smothering. Like most parents who are worried about their children leaving for college and being out in the world on their own, Mom knows I am leaving her soon. It’s like she wants to hold on to me tight, never let me out of her grip of love, provision. Like she worries that all she’s given me won’t be enough to carry me to what’s next.
Dad, on the other hand, lives in the moment. It’s not that I think he won’t miss me when I’m gone, he’s just much better than Mom at enjoying the time we have together while I’m still living with them.
We exit the park and get to my house first. Alex hugs me,
says, “Merry Christmas, happy New Year. I’ll call you when I get to Mexico City.”
“Merry Christmas,” I tell her. “Merry Christmas, Fernando.”
I hug him.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Alex reaches into her backpack and pulls out our Giggles & Gossip notebook and hands it to me.
“Your turn,” she says. “You get it for two weeks this time, instead of one.”
We started Giggles & Gossip when we turned thirteen because Mom told us, “Every teen girl needs a journal.” Neither of us wanted to keep our own, so we decided to share one. We switch off each week, taking turns filling it up with things that made us laugh and topics we want to talk about with each other. I’ve got all our notebooks filled with lists, recaps, reflections, and some of Alex’s art— doodles and freestyle drawings because sometimes Alex expresses herself best with images instead of words. I love that we have an archive of our friendship, a full record of what happened, what we cared about.
Alex says, “I want all the details of the happenings in Larch Heights while I’m away.”
Fernando laughs. “What could possibly happen? We could literally name Larch: Nothing Happens Here, USA.”
Alex shrugs. “Well, people don’t always have to wait for something to happen. Bliss can make something happen.” Alex gives me a look, like she is offering up a challenge.
I smile and repeat her. “Make something happen,” I say. “I’ll do my best.”
SOLOMON
I have never been to Larch Heights, but I want to know who my mother is, so I am taking the long drive—261 miles to be exact—that it takes to get there so I can get to know her.
Actually, it’s not that I don’t know who my mother is. I mean, I know who she is in the technical, practical way that you know someone’s name and date of birth. But I do not know her. Not like I know Dad or Delores, my stepmom. And the little I do know about her, only makes me have more questions about my parents and their story.
When Dad asked me what I wanted for Christmas this year, I said, “Mom,” and told him that I wanted to spend winter break in Larch Heights instead of in San Diego with him and Delores and her side of the family like we normally do. Told him I wanted to spend my Christmas vacation getting to know this woman who I last saw when I was eight or nine.
And so, today, Dad is driving me to Larch Heights so I can
spend time with my mother, get to know her, and ask her all my questions. Dad let me miss the last day of school before winter break so we can leave early, before traffic gets too intense.
I’ve talked to my mom over the years—the obligatory occasions like birthdays and Christmas, and at the beginning and ending of the school year to talk about grades and goals and plans for summer. I call her on Mother’s Day and always send a card, mostly because Grandma tells me it’s the right thing to do. Once, when I asked Grandma why my mom didn’t love me, Grandma said, “It’s not that she don’t have love for you. It’s just that the love she has ain’t enough. Some people just can’t give you what you need. Your mom loves you enough to understand that, so she stays away.”
That answer never fully answered my questions. I want to know why. Why can’t she love me the way I need her to? Why did she leave Portland after I was born and move back to her hometown? No matter who I ask in my family or how I phrase the question, I never get the full story.
I don’t know my parents’ whole story, but I know their differences.
I know Mom is White and Dad is Black.
I know Mom’s name is Cathy and Dad’s name is Drew.
I know Mom lives in Larch Heights, not in Portland with me and Dad.
I know Mom owns a flower shop and Dad is an architect.
I know Mom has never told me she loves me, but Dad says it every day. Sometimes twice.
When I asked Dad: “Why did you and Mom break up?” he told me, “We no longer wanted the same thing.”
I’ve asked Delores if she knows anything about my parents. She just said, “No,” soft and sincere like if she knew more, she would tell me. I’ve asked Auntie, and she always shakes her head, says, “Things were great between them until they weren’t.”
None of this is helpful. None of this answers my questions.
I stopped asking questions around middle school, but now that I’m a senior, I am asking my questions again. I just spent the last several months writing and submitting essays for college applications. Each application gave a choice of which prompt to respond to:
Write about a person or experience that shaped you.
Why are you drawn to the area(s) of study you indicated in this application?
Describe an experience that has been important in helping shape your passion to pursue this field of study.
Every answer to those prompts led me to Mom. I wrote about the sadness of not having her in my life, about how that’s made me determined to make her proud (maybe if she realizes what an amazing son she has, she’ll want to be a part of my life). I wrote about how when I was ten years old,
I learned that she owned a flower shop and I decided that I would learn everything I could about plants and flowers so that whenever I did go visit her, I’d impress her with my knowledge.
I wrote about how having a Black father and White mother means I am constantly navigating what it means to have light brown skin and hazel eyes, how it feels when people ask me “Where are you from?” or worse, “What are you?” And how my aunties are always saying that thanks to my mom I have good hair. I wrote about how I look like Dad, just a lighter version. I am bigger, much bigger. He is more of a tall, lean, lanky track athlete. I am more of a tall, stocky, wide running back.
I wrote about how asking questions about one’s identity is an ongoing, ever-evolving journey to be on.
But right now, I am at a point where I’m tired of asking everyone else these questions. I’m going to the source. Two weeks with Mom. I don’t need her love. I need— and want— her answers.
Dad starts the car, backs out of the driveway, says, “You sure you want to do this?”
“I’m sure. Why? Should I be having second thoughts?” I ask. “Do you . . . do you want me to be having second thoughts?”
“Of course not,” Dad answers. “I’m glad it’s finally happening. I’ve always wanted you and Cathy to have a relationship.”
Cathy.
Dad always calls Mom Cathy. Grandma always refers to Mom as your mother. I think they both have their reasons for calling her by her name or by her title. I call her Mom, but in a
formal way, out of respect, like how you say Ms. or Mr. before an elder’s name. I call her Mom, but the word is never easy to say.
Dad turns the stereo down just a little bit. He’s always got an oldies playlist in rotation. This road trip it’s ’70s R & B. “I just wish she was coming to you, here, in Portland. You being in Larch Heights for two weeks is . . . well, I just wish she was coming here.” And with that, Dad turns the music back up and there’s no more talk about Mom for the rest of the ride.
It takes us four hours to get to Larch Heights. I’ve never been this far east in Oregon. The farther away we get from Portland, the more expansive the sky seems. I’ve only seen photos of Oregon’s Blue Mountains. Seeing them right now, in this moment, I realize they are much more majestic in real life. They roll and roll and then the landscape shifts to sagebrush sprinkled across the flatlands. There are moments where dense, deep green trees stand tall like guards protecting the sky. And just a few miles after that, nothing but sky. Gray and longing for the sun.
Stevie Wonder’s “As” blares out of the speakers. Dad turns it up a little, then a little more. “I got Delores with this song,” he tells me, his smile bright.
“What do you mean, you got her?”
“I mean, I made her a mixtape and put this as the last song, and after we listened to the whole tape, she kissed me. You hear that? She kissed me.” Dad has told me this story before, with Delores in the room. She remembers it differently, always jumping in to clarify, “We kissed each other.”
Dad says, “I know it sounds old-fashioned, but some things just work. You can never go wrong with a good playlist. Remember that.” The GPS says we should take the next exit. Dad switches lanes, singing along with Stevie Wonder, “I’ll be loving you, always . . .”
I don’t have the heart to tell him that I still don’t have anyone to make a playlist for. I just say, “Noted. The way to a girl’s heart is a well-curated playlist of love songs.”
“That’s right,” Dad says. “Music is a key ingredient to any good relationship, if you ask me. And another essential ingredient is honesty. And I don’t just mean being honest as in don’t lie. I mean, be honest about how you feel, what you need. I mean be honest as in show up as the person you really are. Don’t be afraid to be vulnerable.” Dad takes the exit, looks over at me. “You listening?”
“I’m listening,” I tell him.
“Alright, alright. Tuck this away. You’ll thank me later.”
When we get off the highway, instantly the valley opens and the mountains that were in the distance the whole drive feel up close, near enough to walk over to. The mountains surround Larch Heights, giving a just-right balance of nature and city. Well, to be accurate, this is more of a town than a city. More quaint than trendy. Dad follows the directions of the GPS and turns right to drive down Main Street, a strip of blocks with galleries, boutiques, restaurants, and coffee shops. The few people I see on the street are bundled in scarves and thick coats. One is walking their dog on a leash. There’s a
couple holding hands, window shopping. The street is adorned in Christmas decorations— stringed white lights zigzagging above us and lush wreaths hanging above the streetlights. At the end of the street, a Christmas tree stands tall, covered in lights and ornaments. It all looks like a scene from those holiday movies Delores watches every year.
Dad turns again and we leave the Christmas cheer behind us. This street—Mom’s street—is quiet. Just past a bungalow with oversized, light-up candy canes staked in the grass, Dad pulls up in front of a house that has a large wreath made out of holly, lavender, and red berries on the door. A big bow cascades down the middle. Dad parks, says, “Remember what I’ve taught you. Don’t let these White people intimidate you or disrespect you. If something happens, you call me. And Damon isn’t too far and can come get you if he needs to.”
Damon is my twenty-year-old cousin. Just old enough to give me big-brother advice but clearly still figuring life out. He’s house-sitting at my house while Dad and Delores are in California, where Delores is from. Every year, we spend Christmas with her family and take a trip to Tijuana since it’s just across the border.
Dad continues with his “be careful” lecture. He sounds like Grandma. Last night when I stopped by her house to drop off her Christmas gift (an oversized scarf from one of the vintage shops in the Pearl District), she told me to come in, stay awhile, said she wanted to talk with me. The thing is, Grandma has never outright said she doesn’t like my mom, but
she doesn’t say many good things about her either. Most times Grandma asks me questions she already knows the answer to: “You heard from your mom recently?” is usually the question. And with graduation around the corner she’s been asking, “You think your mom is coming for the ceremony?” The answer is always no but maybe that will change after these next two weeks.
Last night Grandma didn’t ask me anything. No questions, just warnings:
Be careful out that way. Ain’t that many of us out there.
Keep your phone charged at all times.
If you get stopped by the police, listen more than you talk. Just do what they say.
If you get harassed by a White man or accused of something by a White woman, take that always-charged phone we talked about and record what’s happening.
I told Grandma she was overreacting and anxious for nothing. She just shook her head and said, “I’ve lived a lot longer than you, Solomon. I’m not telling you to walk in fear. I’m telling you to walk in wisdom. Eastern Oregon is not Portland. And even here, you’ve got to keep your eyes open.”
Dad unlocks the doors, and we get out of the car.
Mom walks out, stands on the porch. Her brown curly hair hits her shoulders, but barely. She is wearing jeans, tall boots, and a long, oversized sweater. Her nervous smile is both alarming and welcoming. I can tell she isn’t sure about this either but also that she’s happy I’m here. Which is exactly how I feel. I’m
glad this is happening but also, there is a rumbling in my stomach. What did I get myself into? Fourteen days. I will be here with my mom, a stranger, for two whole weeks.
Dad and Mom exchange awkward hellos and then he hauls my suitcase from the trunk, gives me a tight Dad-hug, and leaves. Quicker than I thought he would. I climb the porch steps with my suitcase and these butterflies in my belly. And Mom. I am here with my mother, finally getting what I want. Finally here to say all the things I’ve ever wanted to say.
Mom says, “Solomon, wow . . . you’re so tall, so . . . big. I mean, not big—but you know, older. You’ve grown so much.” Mom’s face turns red. She starts over. “It’s, it’s good to see you. Come on in.” She leads the way inside her home, closes the door behind her. “I’ll uh, I’ll show you to your room,” she says. We walk across the living room to a closed door, passing a very thin, tall Christmas tree in the corner. “It’s nothing fancy, but I hope you’ll be comfortable.”
I walk into the room, don’t unpack, or sit on the bed, or even look around much. I just stand there in the middle of the room and let it sink in that I am here. That the voice I’ve heard so many times on the phone, the face I’ve seen over video calls, is here with me in real life.
Mom calls out to me, “I hope you like roasted chicken. Figured you’d be hungry after such a long drive. We can have a late lunch, early dinner. Let me know when you’re ready to eat.”
“Okay,” I say. I’m ready now, so I walk into the dining
room, which isn’t actually a dining room but more of a space that has a small round table with two mixed-matched chairs.
I follow Mom into the kitchen where she takes two plates from the dish rack, hands me one, and says, “There’s green beans and scalloped potatoes too. Oh, and dinner rolls.”
“Wow, thank you.”
“I’ll cut the leftover chicken up and we can have sandwiches or chicken salad the rest of the week.”
We make our plates, bumping into each other in her tiny kitchen. We sit at the round table that’s just big enough for two. I sit on the chair facing the tree because the seat looks bigger and more sturdy, plus the Christmas lights are twinkling and give me something to focus on other than Mom’s anxious, hopeful eyes.
Mom opens her can of soda, opens mine too, says, “Should we, uh, pray? Your dad . . . he’s still religious? Still prays over every meal?”
Mom says a short prayer to bless the food, then when she opens her eyes, she looks at me and asks, “So, what do you want to talk about?”
BLISS
Mom and Dad are waiting for me when I get home from school. I completely forgot that we planned to go Christmas tree shopping and that I was supposed to come straight home. I barely get into the house before they are both in their coats and heading out the door. “We’ve never looked for a tree this late in the season,” Mom says. “I hope there are some good options left.”
Usually, we have the whole house decorated like a winter wonderland the day after Thanksgiving, but Mom has been traveling for work the past two months—first to visit her family in Seattle and then for the National Funeral Directors Association conference in Arizona. So here we are, walking through the Christmas Tree Farm just days before Christmas to find the perfect tree.
The scent of pine and cinnamon hovers in the air. My first stop once we get to the tree farm is the hot chocolate station. It is topped with whipped cream, sprinkled with chocolate shavings,
and is the best beverage on the menu. The baristas make it with condensed milk so it’s extra, extra sweet and thick.
We walk through rows of evergreens. This is one of those rare winter days where the gray sky shares its space with the sun. The sun is bright today, but still, we are bundled in scarves and wearing thick coats. At least it’s not snowing or raining. And because it’s not snowy or rainy, you can see the mountains standing at the edge of the city. After walking to the far end of the aisle, passing up several good options that Dad pointed out, Mom finally says, “That one!”
I have to admit, it is better than the others we considered. Fuller and deep, deep green. Dad calls over one of the staff and they transport the tree to the preparation area to put our new treasure in the shaker to get rid of any dead needles and loose debris. Then it goes through the baler and is wrapped tightly, ready for Dad to tie it on top of the car. Once Dad finishes securing the tree, we all go to the barn. Dad orders two mulled wines for him and Mom and a giant molasses cookie for all of us to share. We sit at the fire pit, next to Pastor Alden and his wife.
Pastor Alden looks like a real, live Santa Claus. Every Christmas season, he is one of the volunteer Santas on Main Street, posing with children for holiday photos and taking Christmas list wishes. His round belly and rosy cheeks make him the perfect candidate. He doesn’t even need the fake white beard.
Pastor Alden smiles. “You all got a late start too, huh?”
“Never again,” Mom says. “Slim pickings out there.” She sips her mulled wine.
Ms. Alden, who looks too stylish and dignified to ever be Mrs. Claus, looks at Mom, says, “We’ve been so busy, it’s a wonder either of us have the energy to even form full sentences, let alone decorate our home for Christmas.” Ms. Alden and Mom go on a walk three times a week. And once a month, all four of them go on a double date. While Ms. Alden and Mom talk to each other, Pastor Alden turns to me and asks, “How are you, Bliss?” His voice is always calming. Something like a lullaby. “You taking care of yourself?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” I answer. I always tell the truth when I’m talking to Pastor Alden. It’s like he can see right through me. Maybe it’s because he’s a pastor and has some secret pact with God, or maybe it’s because he really does want to know. Something about his eyes says he really does care, that he’s not just asking to be polite but because, if ever someone said they weren’t okay, he’d try his best to do something to make things better.
The sky shifts slowly into darker shades of gray and then there is no more light except for the stars that are quietly appearing one by one. We exchange hugs and say goodbye and head home to decorate our trees. Mom promises Ms. Alden that she’ll send photos once ours is up and dressed. “I will too,” Ms. Alden says.
When we get home, Mom goes straight to the closet in the hallway and pulls out the Christmas decorations. Dad sets the tree up in the same place it always goes, in the living room in the corner opposite the TV.
I watch Dad help Mom untangle the clear Christmas lights. He is so patient. Much more gentle than Mom or I could ever be.
I wish I were like him in that way—patient. But I don’t have his temperament, though I do have his looks. Mom always says how it’s not fair that she’s the one who carried me and yet I came out looking just like Dad, as if she had nothing to do with making me. I have Dad’s dark brown skin and his brown, almond-shaped eyes. I have his tall, thin stature too. We seem to disappoint most people who take one look at us and assume we are athletic. We are not. At all.
Even though Mom thinks it’s unfair I look just like Dad, she must revel in the fact that my personality is more like hers. We are both overachievers and overthinkers, and we’d both rather spend time one-on-one with a good friend than hang out with a group of people all at once.
I love having parts of myself that I can trace back to Dad or Mom, seeing them in me, knowing where I get a trait from. There are elements of me that feel stamped, almost like there’s a Mitchell Family Brand. But also, I like knowing that some of me is just me. A one-of-a-kind original, Bliss.
Once Dad untangles the lights, he strings them on the tree. Mom and I place the ornaments on in no particular order or pattern. Once the tree is full, it’s time to add the angel. Just as Dad gets ready to put the angel on top of the tree, the phone to the funeral home rings and Mom’s cell phone rings at the same time. Mom and Dad look at each other, and I know this means
our Christmas tree decorating and family time is over. Mom walks into their bedroom; Dad goes into the office.
Someone has died.
I know it when I hear Dad say to the person on the other end of the call, “I’ll be there in the next thirty minutes.” When he hangs up the phone, he calls Marvin, one of his assistants, and says, “We’ve got a transfer to do. Can you be ready in fifteen?”
And then, when Mom comes out of her room, I know immediately that it’s not just that someone has died, it’s someone we know. Mom’s eyes are heavy and weighted with tears.
“Who?” I ask.
“Paster Alden. He . . . he’s gone. He, he died.”
“Pastor Alden?” I ask her again, even though I know that’s who she said. “We just saw him.”
“Heart attack. He had a heart attack.” Mom grabs her coat out of the closet. “I’ve got to get over there. Carol is . . . she’s distraught. And I don’t want her there alone when your dad arrives to transfer the body.”
A dignified transfer. That’s what it’s called when the funeral home brings the body of the deceased to the funeral home from the hospital or place of death. I’ve gone with Dad once and it was heartbreaking watching the way the family dissolved into sorrow as the body left, but they stayed behind.
Mom walks over to me, kisses me on my cheek. “There are leftovers in the fridge.”
Once Mom and Dad are gone, I decide to finish decorating.
I pick up the angel, put it on top of tree. I turn the lights on and then hang the stockings over the fireplace. After I get the stockings just right, I go to the small pantry and search through Mom’s candles. She stocks candles like she’s worried we might lose electricity. There are so many, we could open another business— a candle shop. I choose the sandalwood and myrrh.
I stand in front of the mantel watching the flame flicker and sway from side to side. I step back to take a look, making sure Mom would be pleased. At least when she comes home, she’ll have a joyful place welcoming her.
I sit on the sofa for I don’t know how long and then I hear Dad and Marvin moving about downstairs. I can’t hear them clearly, but I know they are here. I know they have come with Pastor Alden’s remains. Remains.
It’s an interesting way to talk about a person’s body. I think about this. What actually remains after a person dies? What, besides a person’s personality, besides their purpose actually matters?
What remains?
The tangible body, yes. But also the essence of a person, the legacy. That remains too.
Pastor Alden died.
I just saw him.
He just smiled at me a few hours ago and asked me if I was taking care of myself. He and his wife were just making date night plans with Mom and Dad.
And now he is gone.
And now there is a legacy to talk about.
I think about Pastor Alden’s son. He is not much older than me and today his life changed forever. Today, he inherited his father’s legacy. I think about Mom and Dad, which one of them will die first, think about all they have already given me, all they will leave behind.
I go to my room, take out my Giggles & Gossip notebook. This is a day to mark down.
Pastor Alden died and instantly he became past tense. Pastor Alden died and instantly I am reminded that life is fragile and heartbeats, like candle flames, flicker, flicker until they are out.