My brain unpacks the enormity of my days when I’m doing something monotonous like running errands. Unfortunately, this results in a Charles Manson expression as my inner monologue unspools.
A Kwik Trip cashier says “See you next time!”
Me: BUT WHY DO THEY HAVE TO TAKE THE THROAT OUT WHEN AUTOPSYING.
A Walgreens pharmacist asks if I want my receipt emailed.
Me: WHO CREMATES A RUSSIAN HAMSTER.
The Volkswagen tech asks if I need a shuttle back to work.
Me: SO THAT’S WHAT NOT HAVING A FACE LOOKS LIKE.
Funeral work is forced compartmentalization. Only when I’m picking up psoriasis cream do I realize I was asking someone about their weekend while clicking a skull cap back in place.
It reminds me of how we process grief. How we bravely tuck it away and insist we’re okay until something entirely banal makes us howl.
What can this teach us about pain? About stillness? About acceptance?
About moving forward with death, instead of moving on from it?