Let me tell you, it helps to keel over unexpectedly when in your mid-50s on a sunny morning in June. Catch everybody by surprise–“Aurora? God, no!” But while folks are stunned, hushed and graceful in paying their respects, there is that cougar in the cerise shawl and stilettos whom I never saw once my entire life. She’s here because she had a secret crush on my youngest brother back in 2013, and she’s hoping Clark is divorced by now. (He’s not.)
The skinny man with the silver ponytail who didn’t even know me, came because he needs hugs, and events like these are where they happen. Mine is his second funeral since Sunday.
That pudgy woman from my church with the Brillo hair, her lips in a permanent purse, came expressly to note which of my daughters did not show (yep! Linda!), and of those who did, which one doesn’t join her sisters in the front pew (Lucy).
The woman I roomed with our sophomore year whose braid is still blonde courtesy of Clairol, is hoping to discover an ex who has either maintained his musculature or sports a Rolex (that’d be Ben fifth row; Everett by the exit), and will want to go for a drink after the service.
The heavy-set man with a fedora loitering by the poster boards has come to make amends with my aunt Lorraine. They had a nasty falling-out back in March.
And yes, folks who knew me as a child or knew of me or wished I had given them the chance to know me better, file in like extras for a movie scene. Meanwhile, those who traded blue jeans with me their teen years or traveled to my beach house throughout the seasons are celebrities-of-the-day standing at the podium, one of the in-crowd privy to a special kind of mourning. Their eyes mist over with the rehash of my antics and ambitions, sharing anecdotes that coax the relief of laughter (good going, Greg!). The extras envy them, yet get the splash of contact tenderness, a cleansing in the communal well of grief, encircled by the gladiolas I loved, their bouquets filling an array of vases.
And there are mothers of my friends in the elderly bracket–like that one in an orange chiffon dress by the refreshment table gazing around the full room nervously sipping a cup of punch. All her friends are old as she is. She hopes to go soon–not next, no, not that–but sooner than later, because eventually there won’t be enough folks left to attend hers, she assumes. Ponytail Man over there (just look at him!) is due a big crowd, she figures, since he obviously is popular, as if that’s what it takes. Because she has no clue.
None of them do. And neither did I.
Until now.
~
Shoshauna Shy’s flash fiction and micro-memoir has recently appeared in the public arena courtesy of Cranked Anvil, Five Minutes, Literally Stories and Flash Boulevard. An editor for 101Words, one of her flash was included in Best Microfiction 2021 while she was a finalist for the 2021 Fish Flash Fiction Prize. She earned a Notable Story distinction in Brilliant Flash Fiction’s 2022 contest, was included in their 10th Anniversary contest anthology in 2024, and had stories included in the Bath Flash Fiction Award anthologies in 2022 and 2023.