“Burying the Dead”
By Donald G. Redman
You should decide what to keep and what to leave for dead
Before you pack all your crap in boxes and seal them up like coffins.
But I hadn’t done that; I’d crammed all my possessions haphazardly
Like an evacuee fleeing a hurricane.
I settled into a bombed-out apartment, my precious junk
Still in boxes strewn about like caskets after a flood.
A naked bulb dangled above,
Casting an ugly white light on the carnage below.
The windows were stripped bare so the whole world could see in.
The wooden floors needed to be refinished and
I thought maybe I’d do that before the furniture arrived,
But who was I kidding.
It was cold outside, gray, and getting dark.
A good day for a funeral.
But first I had to pry open those damned boxes like a grave robber and
Loot the valuables before I could dispose of the corpses.
A small box branded “Important!” laid disemboweled on the floor.
It had held the corkscrew I was now using to open
The first of several cheap bottles of red wine
I intended to spill that night.
But what good is it to mark where the corkscrew is buried
When you forget to label the crate with the wineglasses?
Screw it.
I’m not above drinking from the bottle.
I’d seen the winos on Camp Street do that –
Drink straight from bottles shrouded in brown paper bags.
That was back before the Warehouse District got so gentrified.
Before the World’s Fair came.
Every Friday as I left work I’d see them milling about Camp Street
With upturned grins and upturned bottles.
Come Monday I’d find them passed out in doorways or hobbling,
Battered, bruised and bandaged.
I shoveled through the box with the corkscrew
And dug up a portable clock radio and plugged it in.
Townes Van Zandt was singing “Nothin.’”
I walked to the window to peer out, but only saw my reflection.
I was well into my wine when
I unearthed a squat, metal penny bank.
It was from my youth, a safe to store my valuables
Though I apparently never considered money valuable.
My parents had been purging their house of artifacts
From our childhood, returning shit to their rightful owners.
The safe was mine and so I had the burden of carrying it
Around like a cremation urn.
The door was sealed shut by a tiny combination lock.
I turned the bank upside down and discovered I had been trusting in my youth,
Or I had been forgetful.
Printed in black permanent ink: 24-14-3.
I opened the vault and withdrew a plastic bag
Stuffed with envelopes in lavender.
I knew instantly what they were:
Love letters from a romance I had long left for dead.
After our relationship had returned to dust
I apparently had been unable to destroy the letters
And instead entombed them inside a toy bank.
That’s why you don’t let the living bury the dead.
It must have been out of morbid curiosity
That I opened the bag.
Almost immediately my nostrils were filled with
The intoxicating scent of perfume.
Like a lover preparing his beloved’s funeral attire,
My old self had arranged the letters neatly, orderly,
And placed them within the crypt in chronological order,
Embalmed in her perfume.
Nina Simone was casting a spell on me from the radio.
Perfume filled the air like hoodoo incense
And my old girlfriend was suddenly standing there,
A ghost in the corner of my room.
Maybe I was thinking I could resurrect the dead;
I slowly removed the envelopes from the body bag
And began reading the letters one by one,
Starting with the first letter I had ever received from her.
Of course she had promised me her undying love
And hearing her whisper those words once more
Made me want to believe all over again.
But they were after all just empty promises ushered from the grave.
And then came the letters from the bottom of the pile.
Based on her stilted responses, I must have been writing in anger.
I had been angry – she was throwing dirt on my grave and I was scared
Like someone being buried alive trying to claw his way out of the coffin.
Re-reading the letters lead me on a long emotional march
From a joyful Mardi Gras parade to a somber funeral procession
And she was there with me every step of the way,
Waving her perfume-soaked letters like a handkerchief in a Second Line.
When I was finished I was as broken and battered
As a Camp Street wino on Monday morning.
I piled off the bottle and opened the window
And fanned her perfume out into the cold dark air.
I killed her again later that night.
This time by fire,
Burning the letters in a funeral pyre.
Ashes returning to ashes.
I’ve gotten better at burying the dead these days.
I’ve buried a few more relationships since then.
A marriage.
My parents.
The hard part is letting the dead stay dead.
For if you don’t,
They will surely rise from the grave
And eat your heart out.
Copyright 2010 Donald G. Redman All Rights Reserved
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