The Silence

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The Silence This morning I dressed a woman for burial. No, this isn't the woman that gave me such a spectacular evening last week. That particular geriatric Diva will be around for years to come. I think I should take a job dealing with the dead. They're so peaceful. It's so quiet around them and no one is stamping their feet at me or throwing punches at their siblings. Dead people don't stuff Barbie Dolls, crayons, spoons, or wiper blades in bathroom drawers, all items I discovered when I finally got that over-stuffed drawer in the bathroom open. You're not liable to find tater tots in their clothing when you do the laundry. A dead person is highly unlikely to suddenly remember they have a huge project due in class tomorrow morning and they need 37 things they don't have and they need it NOW. Dead people don't mess up things. You put them down, they stay there. They don't run off and get lost on you. I could get used to that. I think. Dressing this woman, Carol is her name, was a wonderful experience. I know that sounds odd, but it was ok, really it was. I've done it before. To me, it's not the person anymore. It's simply the vessel that carried that person's soul while they spent their time on this earth. She was a wonderful lady. I have no doubt that she still is a wonderful lady. In this life she owned an alteration store, had children, lost her husband, gained gray hair, grew frail and then needed a wheelchair to get around in her last few years. Finally, she was unable to care for herself at all. She managed to stay in her own home by having live-in caregivers. The older I get, the more the cycle of life becomes apparent to me. Not that I'm all for it you understand. In my head I'm seventeen. I still get startled when someone refers to me as Ma'am or Lady. Those can't be lines around my eyes and seventeen year olds don’t go gray. And why can't I wear flared pants with boots without having my oldest child snicker at Mom trying to be tite. Tite. For those of you without teenagers, that word means what cool and groovy meant to us. Oh, and by the way, we called those 'flared' pants, bellbottoms. Like I said, I'm not particularly pleased with my advancement in the cycle of life. But I get it. I understand it even if I don't like it. It makes me hold my babies even tighter. I find myself staring at my children, trying to memorize every feature of their faces at the ages they are right now. Somehow trying to stamp it indelibly on my memory, where I can pull it out like an old picture and relive them again. I know it's futile, yet still I try. They make me laugh and I've shed many a tear over them. They've given me every one of those gray hairs and each little line on my face. And though I might complain now and again about the noise and the mess, I guess I'll take the commotion and giggles and tater tots in pants over being around the deceased. There will be time enough for the silence later on. More than enough time for the silence
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