MY MOTHER’S FUNERAL by Paola Peroni
Whenever you returned from a funeral we had the same discussion. You told me you did not want anybody at your funeral. I protested and tried to explain the funeral was not for you, but for the rest of us. You then agreed I could invite my close friends, but insisted you wanted no part in the carnival. And when I said that you would be dead and it would not make a difference, you said that now you were alive and these were your wishes, adding you did not want to be buried with my father’s family either because you could not stand eternity in the company of Aunt Tina. You wanted to be buried in your family’s tomb with your sisters. It was at this point I reminded you that you were not going to a party, you were going to be buried. You laughed, but you did not let go, and said you still did not want to be stuck next to the remains of that nasty woman. Then pointing your finger at me, you told me: make a note of it. But I wanted no part in this, and warned you to write your wishes down so there would not be an argument when the day came.
I hate this kind of talk, but I believe you indulge in it so that the memory of these conversations might prevent drama at a time you know will be shattering for me. I have often heard you say you have no fear of death, and your only concern is how I will cope with the loss.
But things might take a different turn. I might surprise us both after you are gone. Free from your scrutiny I might venture where I never dared. I might discover what is best in me. I might seek refuge in other loves. I got another dog after the first one died.
* * *
I sit next to you on the day of your mother’s funeral, and all I can think of is the day I will have to attend yours. You refuse to display your feelings to the world, a self-effacing restraint that plays no small part in the beauty you have retained at this age. But in my eyes you remain, as you were when you kissed me good night one night before going out, sleek in black, lips drawn red – radiant grace.
We follow the casket out the dim church into the light of a congested street. Voices are no longer muted, the bustling of life casts death aside. I overhear people making plans, expressing delight at the weather. A few feet away an old acquaintance of the family admires her friend’s attire, then catching my gaze upon her resumes a solemn composure.
“I might not show up at your funeral,” I say.
“I will no longer miss you,” my mother says.
Paola Peroni’s stories appear in the Bellevue Literary Review and Antioch Literary Review.