Two Stories

Overalls

If I could choose my death, it would be suffocation by rolling down a hill with you. I would be going so fast I’d pass out and never wake up. And you would laugh. And I would die laughing with you. And I would call you a dufus for laughing at me. But only in my head. And only if dead people have thoughts. If they don’t, it’d be my last thought, ‘What a dufus.’ Or maybe I’d choose to start an uprising. An uprising in my favor, and not in yours. And then I’d die and leave you in my uprising. Or I might get on a carnival ride I saw from the highway 20 minutes ago, and leave you with my cotton candy, and scream while it falls on you. And we won’t be able to laugh about it. Because we will both be dead.

If I could choose my death, it might be singing to you for too long, like I did when we were kids. My face would turn red, and my mind would break from too many words, and I would die in a hospital bed. The same hospital you took me to when I found out I was pregnant. The same hospital all those grey-haired saggy-skinned folks go to die. Because after you’re done laughing, you will call 911 like we used to do all the time to hang up on them. But this time, you won’t hang up. You’ll stay on the phone until they get there. And you won’t be laughing anymore. And I will die in that same hospital you went to when you drove your parents’ car into a brick wall when we were seventeen, and you broke your neck. When I came to see you, it was the first time you weren’t wearing your sisters’ old hand-me-downs, and your pretty brown hair wasn’t matted like a bird’s nest. I laughed at you, because that neck cast made you look like a dog in a cone, and who even drives into a brick wall at seventeen? And you cried. And I got mad and yelled at you for being such a big baby about it, because you were leaving the hospital the next day. I laughed as I told you about my cancer, and that it was for the best. I said that God has a plan for everything and I’m tired of living anyways.

If I could choose my death, I wouldn’t be leaving my baby with you. You will laugh at her when she does bad things like her momma used to, but you will cry with her in her pain. You won’t lie to her like some people and tell her that her daddy loves her, or that she looks like him, even if she does. You’ll dress her in those little overalls like we always talked about, and she will learn to fight for what she wants. If I could choose my death, I would be taking you with me. Don’t cry about me when I’m gone. If you do, I’ll laugh at you and call you names and come back to haunt the walls of your house. But only if dead people have thoughts.

Let's Celebrate!

1.

They call it a damn celebration. A celebration of life, or something like that. They say that’s what you would have wanted. They say you are looking down from heaven and smiling because we are celebrating your long and happy life. And I smile on the inside because your life was long, but it was not happy, and you were never one to celebrate. And I know that if I was dead, I wouldn’t be wanting others to celebrate. But I don’t say any of this, because it seems to help them feel better about themselves and their own ‘long and happy’ lives. My hands are wrinkly and I move so slow now that I don’t think I’ll be around for their celebrations when they die. But if I was, I’d be the one bringing the cake.

2.

They tell me they are sorry for my loss. I tell them to go stub their little toes on a big rock. A sharp rock so that it bleeds, and they have to go get stitched up. And when they try to shake my hand, I spit on them. And when they smile with those sad eyes, I want to mop the floor with them. And the next time someone tells me, ‘He was a good man’ and ‘He sure did lead a good life’ I will go searching for a cake, and I will smash it in their faces. And I will find those little party hats, one for everyone. And I will call it a celebration. And I will take us out to dinner, and I’ll tell the Mexicans who it is we are celebrating, and they won’t be able to find you. And no one will care because I’m ‘just a grieving widow,’ and ‘everyone grieves in their own way.’ And I will buy a slew of kazoos and hand them out to the little children at their own celebrations and it will be one big party, and we will all sleep extra good that night.

3.

I came to visit you last night at that old cemetery. I swear I could hear your voice calling out to me from the grave, like Cain’s blood cried out to God from the ground. If you were still alive I’d look you in the eyes and tell you I’m sorry. I’m sorry if you’re lonely up on that hill without me. It was cold last night, and my bones can’t take the wind too long. I’m sorry that it happened to you, and not me. I’m sorry that when I couldn’t do anything, I tried to help, and when I could, I didn’t even try. I’ve never been good with timing, and you know that. So don’t judge me just because you didn’t get the chance to make a choice. And even if you did get the choice, still don’t judge me. Because you can’t even think. Because you are dead now. But when I’m dead, it’s okay if you celebrate.