My last physical act was to slide my hand along Ed's torso and place the fruit in my mouth. The light from the television flickered blue waves from the ancient seas across the white walls, but the noise became incoherent. The fruit was soft and cold on my tongue. An odd tingle of chemicals and sweet sugar filled my mouth as creeping darkness filled my eyes.
“Connie, my love, come with me, this way, come this way.” Ed stood in the middle of a ball of light right where the television screen had been. I couldn't look straight at him. It was like trying to look at the sun.
The white room faded from my view, and I began to panic. “Ed, where are you. Wait for me. I'm almost able to move.” I put my hand out into the light and found his warm hand waiting for mine.
The sensation of rising filled my mind, but my body was absent. Light and free, I followed alongside my husband. Stopping for a moment, I looked down at the bed, and the two old bodies coiled together.
“Don't look back, my love,” he cautioned. “Look forward, look at the beauty waiting for us ahead.” Ed tugged my hand and brought me back to the moment. It was beautiful, so I let all that tethered me to the old body on the bed fall to the ground.
I turned to face the bright lights ahead, put on my best smile, and held Ed's hand tightly. “Okay, I'm ready now, let's go.”
MUSEUMS
Pools of water and walls of black smoke filled my dreams these past few nights. I'm not sure what significance these images have for my subconscious. We visited an Agra complex for career week, and I stood two stories above a water vat. The dark liquid was so still and calm. It felt like watery arms would reach out from the deep and pull me to the bottom of the tank. I decided then and there that farming was not going to be my thing. I feel the same way today, like some ridiculous impossible thing is pulling me towards death.
It's traditional for friends and neighbors to bring food and wood to the family of the sacrificed. It is supposed to lighten their burden and show the gratitude of the community. Society collectively scaled this old practice back to dense spice cakes wrapped in colorful foil and simple containers of wood chips for mulching. Despite this new practice, several of our neighbors left us boxes of fresh baked goods overnight.
The family ate breakfast quickly, we dressed in our best somber-looking clothing and piled in the transport again. Conversation on the way to the museum was limited to basic pleasantries. The theology reading was optional, but it signaled the end of our life celebration event.
Hess and Nina took my mother's car. Space away from Hess and any conversation he might start about my future was a welcome relief.
The museum invites attendees to wander throughout the massive expanse of green trees and colorful flowering bushes and reflect. The high walls and cold stone floors give an ominous feeling to the building. Open spaces between the groups of trees provide a natural spot to gather and admire the many memorials disguised as charitable contributions. Copper plaques with familiar family names stood by each grouping of plant and tree documenting their loss.
The horticultural society also provides the museum with two types of genetically modified birds and several butterflies species that roam freely among the branches. The air is moist and smells like ginger with faint hints garlic and pine.
Beryl was given a gift of university fund credits by my soon to be father-in-law. It appeared my grandmother arranged for Beryl to meet a potential benefactor after the theology reading.
Hess, occupied by his friendly new companion Nina, hadn't found the time to grill me over my life path choices or my publicly announced marriage to Jason.
Marriage, what a big fat, embarrassing word. Everyone seemed to be looking at Jason and me with such intensity now. So much change happened in so few days. I could barely catch my breath long enough to change my clothes and present myself for the next round of stranger hugging.
Most people say I resemble my grandmother when she was my age. It was a nice compliment, but pictures of her from her early teens prove she was much prettier than I could ever hope to be.
Beryl inherited our grandmother's shapely hands and long fingernails. My hands are more utilitarian, presumably like my father's side of the family. Flipping my hands over and back again, I could see the thickness and shortness missing from my sister's hands.
“Why are you staring at your hands, Kar?” Jason asked while rubbing his hand on my back in a small circle.
“They're not delicate hands are they. I'm afraid any wedding ring will look ridiculous on my chubby fingers.”
“Really? Hmm, I happen to like your hands.” Jason gestured for me to sit on a bench next to a gardenia bush. According to the metal plaque next to the bush, it was an heirloom variety donated by the Brewster family ten years prior.
“You have strong hands. They aren't the hands of an over-pampered, fake polish wearing woman who worries about chipping her manicure. You never hesitate to get dirty or have fun. It's one of the many things I love about you.”
Jason kissed the back of each of my hands before sitting next to me on the bench. He told me about our dinner plans and how his grandfather knew Beryl's new benefactor. I tried to listen to the details. I care for my sister's well-being, but I couldn't help but roll the thought around in my head. What
