What Do You Mean We’re Not Tossing This Funeral Wreath and Whoever Catches it Gets to Die Next?
By Aria Braswell
Here she comes again, that party pooper. That drippy droopy sad mess. My sister. Oh, are you stressed again because of your doctorate? Oh, you think you’re losing your hair prematurely just like mom always said you would? Wow, life must be so hard for you. In your big house with your big dogs. I happen to love my 305 square foot studio apartment. There’s less to clean.
What do you mean we’re not tossing this funeral wreath and whoever catches it gets to die next?
It’s what grandma would’ve wanted. You didn’t know her like I did. Grandma had a sense of humor, unlike you, Kathy. Why won’t you stop crying? Is it because of the overalls? The yellow makeup? Grandma wanted to go in the ground dressed like a minion from the hit animated movie: Despicable Me. She loved every project Steve Carell took on. Stop making this all about you.
She’s doing it for the attention, that Kathy. She’s demonstrating what I refer to as performative sadness. She sulked in here today dressed in what I can only refer to as Victorian Widow Chic. No overalls. Didn’t even read the evite. And now, here she is, haunting the place, hanging around in corners, sniffling. She’ll probably start flickering the lights and appearing behind guests in the bathroom mirror.
If anyone should be buckles deep in tears right now, it should be me. Grandma and I had a special bond. Every Christmas, since I turned twelve, we’d sit in mom’s closet and share a bottle of warmish sauvignon blanc. She’d tell me things in there. Things that sounded a lot like: “Hey, Kim, when I go in the ground, I wanna be dressed like one of those little yellow guys in the blue pants that the kids love so much”. That was the thing about grandma. She knew how to have a good time.
Kathy wouldn’t know how to have a good time if it hit her in the face, like a funeral wreath thrown into a crowd of mourners on the final note of Ave Maria.
Kathy probably won’t even make it through her speech. She’ll probably get all choked up and sit back down and all of our aunts will hug her and tell her how strong she is and then later, on the phone to one another, they’ll say “Oh that Kathy, we’re so proud of her for making it through all of this schooling with those two broken legs. She really is going places. Or will be, once her legs get better. She’s really done well for herself despite everything, that Kathy, with such a big house and big dogs and such a big ring on her finger. I hope she’ll be able to walk down the aisle instead of crawl, like she did out of that awful train accident that took her legs and grandma’s life.”
They probably won’t even hear my speech over all of Kathy’s crying. Which is a shame because I worked really hard memorizing Sally Field’s monologue from Steel Magnolias.
Kathy. Taker of my fun. Stealer of my dreams. Won’t let me put condoms in the collection plate, won’t let me live in her guest house, won’t let me throw this funeral wreath. Well guess what, Kathy? I’ve just had a warmish bottle of sauvignon blanc in the chancel closet. And I think Grandma was wrong there near the end, when she got sober, and cut off communication with me entirely. She was a better driver before she sobered up anyways. I mean look at what happened with that train. The grandma I knew wouldn’t let anything stop her. Not even a Class 6 Freight going 110mph.
So after my speech, I am throwing this funeral wreath. Don’t worry. You probably won’t catch it anyways! You can’t even jump with those two broken legs.
Rejection Letter
