Crypt

The whole place smelled like a thin layer of Febreeze over mold, kind of like one of those Engineering guys who think they can replace deodorant with a metric-ton of Dior Sauvage. I let the tips of my fingers slide against the ashen rock, feeling the frigid bumps and dents scratch my skin. I would never let myself end up here- slotted, into a stack of folders nobody really needs anymore, but have to be kept anyway, in case somebody might want to visit one of them someday.

It felt as though every sense I had was muffled with fabric, wrapped around my entire head. There were about 3 flickering lights per hall, all amounting to maybe half a watt, and needless to say, barely helped my search, especially with the whole thing not even being alphabetized. I squinted at the dusty placards, hoping to find something familiar. My footsteps murmured across the vast emptiness, blending into a number of isolated sounds. Water dripping down along the face of the right wall. Sad hums of the dying lights above. My tinnitus reminding me of my upcoming fate.

There she was, Sara Luiz. Wedged between a guy named John Proctor and a lady, Serena Joy. Awful company, it seemed to me. The surface of her designated square was much cleaner than theirs, smooth. The mold and erosion of time hadn’t cracked wrinkles into her stone. There was no place to put my lilies, so I rested them on the ground in front of her column. The pale flesh of the petals sparked like a flame in the dark. It wasn’t right, none of it was. She had a small, golden cross etched next to her name, as though her mere presence in this place wasn’t clear enough. It didn’t really shine like the flowers.

And the whole idea seemed a little unfair. Some imagined essence that’s inside of you supposedly gets to go to an idyllic blanket of clouds, and the actual, tangible body is discarded in hardwood, as obsolete waste, as if it didn’t carry you through every day, let you see stars littering the sky like diamonds, let you feel the grass prick your feet in a way that reminded you of your vitality.

I want to be put on display, in glass, wiped clean every day. I want my body to return to soil before careful eyes. I want bright chandeliers, and violins. A whole room to myself, to the loving body, and a garden of lilies full of life.