…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

The funeral director is ten minutes late.
Mother leaves instructions. Make it simple.
Closed casket. She wants to be buried
in the black Liz Claibourne dress,
the one she wore to her fiftieth
high school reunion, three-inch black
suede dancing shoes, the cross necklace
her friend Clara gave her at Christmas.

The funeral director arrives. Dark
suit, stiff white shirt, art deco tie,
hands clasped like in the movies, crooked
teeth, cat-like stance. He’s ready to pounce,
talk me into spending big bucks.

Down the checklist. Yes, yes, yes, no, no,
no. Absolutely no to the fifty dollars
for makeup and coiffure. Mother would not
approve. Closed casket, I remind him.

He rolls his eyes, escorts me around
the display room, touring me past
his deluxe models. I am not buying
a car, I insist. The room smells
like dried rose petals. No to roses
for three-hundred and fifty,
a simple bouquet will do. Flashing
a graveyard grin, he bids me farewell
until tomorrow at two.

Show her out he tells the white-haired
man who greeted me when I arrived.
Is the lady in the cold storage room
your mother, he wants to know? Not really,
I say wondering if Mother is laughing.
She knows I’d never let her stay overnight
in a place like this.

Lisbeth J. Thom