A coffin, a plastic bag

In the span of that hour, as he eyed the priest and the backs of heads, and a slant of sunshine up on a wall, and the coffin there in between some flowers, his own life shrunk down to these details and that place, then grew out, then shrunk. All of this in his own head of course. For there is where we mostly exist: in our own heads. You, me, everyone. We exist in our heads, or as it is often said, we are each the hero of our own story, and maybe this is always the trouble. In this story — his story, his morning — all of this had begun as a chore:

He’d needed to wake up earlier. Needed to dress himself up in clothes he didn’t much care to wear. He’d needed to forego breakfast and his coffee ritual — black, slow, and over by the window. He’d needed to walk through the morning cold. Needed to get to his grandmother’s in time to order up for them the taxi ride over. Yes in this movie, his morning, he had been reduced to such a bit part, a chaperone for his grandmother, yet somehow he could still make it bigger, could still add up these little sacrifices, could make it about him. His grandmother’s cousin — second? third? it wasn’t clear — she was the person there in the box, that coffin. Apparently he’d even met her once before, long ago he was told, but this he couldn’t remember. And if he couldn’t remember then things could remain more abstract, more distant, and he could focus more on the surfaces rather than the life. And for awhile he did this. He admired the cut of the wood: nice, yet understated, modest. Then there was the priest’s robe: immodest. And the fashion of the attendees. And then he thought about the theatrics of it all, the singing and rising up, the music, and he wondered what this was really like for the man up there now, the one singing in the robe. He wondered how many of these the priest usually had to perform in a week, a month; this church, it was directly across from a huge cemetery. For a few minutes he even dreamed up a movie script in his head, a short film about a priest with performance anxiety: Called to God, yet unable to Perform.

The coffin again. The letters and the numbers there. They stated the woman inside had lived to 92. And then he imagined himself in such a box, and wondered what his own numbers might be. Here is where his life began to grow, grow out beyond this little morning, his stupid coffee, the slant of light, these surfaces. Here is where it grew out into some future, a future he hoped would be a distant one, but who knew? He wondered who would be in the pews for him. No no, no pews, no priest. But still: who? Who and Where, and of course When? And would there be some daydreaming grandson there in the back, too? Would there be flowers and what of the cut of wood? Actually no, he wouldn’t want those things either, the flowers, the coffin. He thought it better to be withered down to ash, and maybe spread somewhere that breathed.

What if then was soon. What if he wasn’t prepared, and would he ever be prepared? What if he hadn’t yet done the things he wanted. What if it was tomorrow. What then? Who then? Was he even in the right spot? Had he made the right decisions, or exactly the wrong ones?

Had he made right decisions, or exactly the wrong ones?

The priest finished his sermon and a member of the family got up to speak. The son. That son who on the way over had been described in composite, in caricature: Lawyer. Successful. Oh yes, quite Successful. International. And oh my, if you only saw his house. But a good man, yes, Good. And here he was now, in an elegant coat and removing his mask, and setting some papers down, and then reading. He thanked everyone for making their way there during this troubling time, this pandemic. A proper start. He avoided looking up and out, just kept his eyes the papers, the words there, the task, and as he spoke, as he said he wanted to share just a little bit about who his mother was, and of the life she lived, his voice began to quiver, to crack. She’d lived through The War, and The Russians. She’d lived long, and accomplished much. When he spoke of her personally, of the love she gave out, the person saying this was no longer a Lawyer or a Man, or Successful or any thing other than a boy saying goodbye to his mom, and now the boy was really crying, and others were too, and this crackling rippled through the church, through the pews, and even made its way to him, the chaperone, the grandson, there sitting in the back. His tears surprised him. And finally he was there, actually there.

Shadows played in the slant of light up on the wall. Birds. Their flapping wings. Did they know of this? Of death? He thought about this too.

In the end the son finished speaking, folded up his papers, his task, and returned to his seat. And the priest closed with a blessing and threw water onto the wood. And a group of hired men in white gloves then appeared from the rear and at just the proper time, and while an organ played those men carried out the flowers and later the coffin. How many coffins, how many lives had they carried out on their shoulders? Did they keep a count? And as they walked past with this one, this body, this life, this job, his own life and mind receded back to these things, these thoughts and these little surface details, these gestures, the protocol. He filed slowly out along with the others, and then somberly eyed the hearse being loaded with the casket. The hearse then began moving slowly away, and the others followed behind on foot; the procession was now crawling there to the cemetery across the way. But he and his grandmother stayed, remaining there by the church entrance, just as they’d earlier discussed — it was too cold, and she was too old and weak, she’d said, and so now she was asking him to arrange the cab ride home. He did this on his cell phone, refusing a first driver who would need 12 minutes to get there and instead opted for another. Then he looked up, and grew confused: there was another hearse now backing up to the church. Another set of men in white gloves. Another casket. Another life there inside. Another story. And here was another set of people now gathering and going in. Yes, here was another funeral, right on the back of the other.

Is this how it was? Did The End become a conveyor belt?

Focus. Back to the here and now, the task. He worried that the grandmother was getting chilly and of course she worried more, she said he would catch a cold as he hadn’t dressed warmly enough, though of course she was always saying this.

But then they were in their taxi, and later home, and in their own stories again. They discussed lunch. They discussed the things he needed to go out and buy for her — the newspaper because it was Friday, and in the Friday newspaper there was her favorite crossword. Also a carton of eggs. Yes, she needed eggs.

And so he drifted off, and performed these tasks, and he picked up some lunch for them along the way, and stopped also to get some groceries for himself, for later. He found himself back inside of these little things again but now wondering about the big things, and he wondered how much of this was really little and how much of it was really big. And again he wondered: was he doing any of this right?

In the grocery store, as his mind drifted about like this, as he tried to remember which vegetables he needed to buy, an old lady then snapped him out of this in-between. She was calling for his attention and coming up to him. In her gloved hands she was holding out a little plastic bag — the kind of bag one rips off from the common roll, and then fills, and weighs, and puts a sticker on, and pays for, and empties, and then recycles. And she was asking him just to help her open it, this little plastic bag — her gloves made prying the thing open all the more difficult, she couldn’t find that pesky seam, and really nobody ever could. And yes, yes of course he could help her, but then he was struggling with it too, and then they both began to laugh about this little thing together, this task, this stupid bag, and finally he managed to work it open and she thanked him, though somehow and for the rest of that day he wanted to thank her, too. He wanted to thank her because he’d found himself thinking about that little moment, that meeting of strangers, that bag. He’d needed that moment, that simplest of interactions, that chore, that feeling of being of some use in this world to someone, to that fellow traveler. And he’d needed the laugh. And maybe she had needed it, too. He’d needed all of it, maybe, all of that morning just to wake up a little, to break free of himself if even for a while.

And he went back his grandmother’s. The newspaper, the crossword puzzle, the eggs.

And the groceries he later took home, or to where home is for now.

And on his way he looked back and he looked up, and he waved to his grandmother as always, and they both smiled.

And the next morning he woke up when he wanted to, and he had his coffee by his window.

His couch, his comfort.

But still he couldn’t stop thinking about the day before, about that coffin, that plastic bag, and so he began to write.