Done With It - [Thea/Julien]
Jan 5, 2015 5:15:04 GMT -5
Post by chelsey on Jan 5, 2015 5:15:04 GMT -5
DOROTHEA DAY
"And my necklace is of rope, I tie it and untie."
IT'S A GOOD THING PEOPLE can only die once.
Can you imagine how absolutely hellish it would be if people could die more than once? How many days of silence the living would have to endure? How many times a year we'd have to inconveniently honor our dead?
These are probably not the best thoughts to be thinking as I'm making my way towards my mother's grave on her death anniversary, but - Christ - being forced out of bed by my dad to deliver flowers to the grave of a woman I don't even know wasn't the best way to start my Sunday morning. "Why. Can't. You. Do. It," I grunted, with my head stubbornly stuffed under my pillow. I could feel the disappointed look in his eyes even without meeting his gaze, but it's too early in the morning and I'm too tired to feel guilty about anything. Although, I'd probably feel guilty later. The guilt, and bad feelings in general, usually come back to bite me in the ass around 10 PM. "Dorothea, just do it, okay? I'll meet you there in a few hours, I have to finish up some work." Now, I'm grudgingly zigzagging through the familiar route of the cemetary, feet marching like those of an angry soldier, arms crossed over my chest, and flowers clenched in one fist. God, can you imagine if I were forced to do this more than once a year? Yeesh.
Okay, so maybe I am a bit insensitive to the dead - but that's nothing new. Being desensitized to death is sort of a side effect to living and working in a mortuary. Death is much easier to laugh at when it's the wee hours of the night, and your dad and you are basically only surviving the night shift through cups of cold coffee, and the national anthem is playing on the radio, and you got Mr. Tanaya's dead, cold chin in your hand as you bob it up and down up and down, making him lipsing to the patriotic lyrics. In fact, it's a lot easier to laugh at. Sometimes, even Dad laughs too.
But, this is the kind of stuff only people like Caly or Tags would completely understand. They'd both probably pick up one of Mr. Tanaya's arms and make him do a funny little jig. Dad, on the other hand? Maybe, on a good day, he'd chuckle. Most days, however, it's, "Leave Mr. Tanaya alone, Thea," or, "Let the old man rest, Thea," or, "Don't even think about putting lipstick on him, Thea," or whatever.
I'm not as worried as much about my lack of affection for my mother than I am for my dad on this particular day. My mother was dead before I could ever cement any conscious memories about her, and of course I love her, but in a detached way, in a way that my heart could only ever allow with her absence. It's not love in the way my dad wants me to love her, but it's the best I can do and I can only hope that he understands that. For him, today is a day of remembrance, grief, and a reminder of our losses. For me, it's just Sunday.
I love my dad in a much realer way than I do my mother, which is probably why I'm briefly concerned on how he might be holding up today on her death anniversary. He's always sadder on today than most days, and it just reinforces my gratitude that people can only die once and have one death anniversary - one day of the year to suffer through.
But, then I almost trip over a gravestone, and I'm reminded that I could still be in bed right now if it weren't for him. The guilt will come later, but for now, I'm muttering bloody obscenities under my breath, "Stupid dad, stupid anniversary, stupid cemetary -" and wishing I could be just about anywhere but here.
