BUYING THE CASKET
February 26, 1992
The kids are gawking at the array, a roomful of
boxes arranged left to right by ascending price
(I think "Each fish swallows the smaller")
a trip from Medicaid halakhic to *traife* elegance,
from unlined unfinished pine to a casket fit
for Meyer Lansky or Dutch Schultz.
I'm a bit--no, a lot--dazed and slightly crocked,
for mom died four hours ago, yet I, the only begotten,
am required by the immutable forces of faith and custom
to have her tucked into the ground before the next day ends.
So my wife does all the business, laughs--but yes, me too--at the
owner's Loosen Up The Mourners terrible jokes,
the greatest schticks since Henny Youngman.
Take my mother. Please. For Christ's sake. Oh God.
Jake and Ben leave the casket showroom only slightly speechless,
imagining people laying down in the various boxes
as though to try them out like Sarah Bernhardt
who traversed the world with her own coffin
as a comfort and reminder of her future.
KTW/10-14-09
(The subject header: a disturbing weekend and week in which I was
subjected to domestic violence and am anticipating becoming homeless.
And yet I write?)
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Ken Wolman
http://awfulrowing.wordpress.com
http://opensalon.com/blog/kenneth_wolman
http://wearethecure.org/friends/cids-memory-p-394.html
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