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OLDER

READS

RINGS

D-LAND

GUESTBOOK

I need to write the next part of what happened, but I keep finding reasons to put it off.

Dad and I reluctantly dressed for the viewing. Justin wore his blue jeans for his own personal reasons: "I was wearing jeans the first time I met her," he stated.

We got to the funeral home about a half hour before the service was to begin. Justin remained in the car with the girls and waited for Mom to pick them up. Dad, Tami, Effie (Ginger's aunt) and I made our way inside.

Like many funeral homes, this one had been converted from a very large old house. We entered into a short hallway which spilled out into a sitting area at the back of the main room which Ginger was in. There was a much larger sitting room directly on the other side of the hallway, that I only had cause to go through once while trying to find the coatroom. Nestled in a corner was an enclave with a stereo from which they pipe their somber organ music that no one likes. There was much more to the place, many more rooms, but I had no cause or desire to see them. We steadied our composure in the small sitting area and prepared to go and see her.

There were two easels set up facing the sitting area, one with various pictures of Ginger and one empty, yawning and waiting to be filled. We passed the mantle of what was once a fireplace and there were pictures of Ginger: Ginger with Tami when Tami looked to be about 6, Ginger and Tami with Ginger's Mom, and two of Dad and Ginger that had to be at least 20 years old. Dad made it to the casket first, probably eager in a way he didn't understand to see her. It was my mission to support my Dad and so wherever he went, I was only far enough behind so as not to emotionally crowd him. I lingered halfway to the front to give him a moment to say hello to her for the first time in 2 days. I lingered to give him a moment to take in what Ginger looked like dead. Then I joined him.

She looked awful. I have been to many funerals in my time and I know that even dead people are supposed to look better than she did. The peachy-beige foundation they use was caked into creases on her face and it was the only make-up they had put on her. Dad had waffled about whether or not he should put her glasses on her and thankfully, he had brought them and placed them on her face. That made her look the tiniest bit like herself. The most disturbing thing about her appearance, aside from the obvious, was that her right ear, the one facing out, was purple. There was a span of time between when Ginger died and when Dad found her and when the heart stops, the blood pools where gravity pulls it and turns the skin purple. It's called lividity. It was obvious that the make-up person covered it as best they could, but their best didn't help much.

I knew why I was there. I knew why we were all there--Ginger just died. But somehow it was a shock for me to see her there, lying in her simple brown box. Throughout the evening, I would look and for a split second I would think 'Wait, what is Ginger doing up there?' Or 'Oh my God, that's Ginger!

The evening is an endless blur of people: people I didn't know, for whom I didn't want to smile and thank for coming, and family and friends of Ginger's that I was comforted to see. Two hours of shaking hands and looking as strong as I could for Dad, who kept checking me from the other end of the casket. I only allowed myself to cry once, my face hidden in the shoulder of an old family friend and former co-worker of Ginger's. Lorrie and I held each other and trembled with quiet sobs.

design by fergie

Bits of fire in the sky push me east back home. I used to live in flames but it's hard on the wings. Choke me. Smoke me. Scare me back. You try but you just can't. I peel the layers in my spare time, and you're easy to see through. I can fly, I've discovered on my own. I may be the lesser butterfly but my wings are just as strong. Who are you to tell me to find a place to land? I may be the lesser butterfly but baby watch me glide.