RE: Miller Family Funeral Home (2010-2016)

It all started with Aunt Esther. She was a pink, pork roast of a woman with a heavy, beetle brow and a remora mouth frozen in a wide oval shape, as if death had found her in the middle of swallowing whole russet potatoes and they'd both been a bit shocked by what they'd seen.

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"Good work with the smile," her brother had whispered in my ear as he inspected the body prior to the funeral. "Never looked half as pleasant when she was alive."

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In truth, Manly had had to break the jaw in six places and knot the whole thing up with about a cord of wire to make the old goblin look as if she were resting peacefully. The effort had been worth it, however, judging by the relieved looks her extended family had exchanged on their way back from the open casket. It was perverse, in a way, because clearly no one there had given half a fig about Esther when she was alive. In fact, judging by the incredibly vague, non-specific platitudes lobbed around during the various eulogies, it seemed like a good number of them weren't even sure which one Aunt Esther was. But they had come to her funeral and she had managed (with some help) to help support the narrative of her not being terrible by looking like a pleasant enough human being. All in all, everyone got what they wanted.

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I hadn't exactly wanted anything myself, but I got something all the same: Rose Duym.

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I first noticed Rose during her father's speech. Where everyone else had the good grace to look straight ahead and pretend that they were listening, Rose was staring at me. I pretended not to notice. Through brief, fleeting glances I sussed out Rose's general appearance: blond, short-haired, nose ring, black, high-collared button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black dress underneath, pretty, very pretty.

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There was also quite a bit of purple eye make-up, which you don't see enough of at funerals, I think.

After the service, Manly and I stood at the door, seeing the mourners on their way. Rose came and stood in front of me. She pulled at the lapels of my jacket and pretended to fluff my pocket square.

"D'you know how Esther died?" she asked me, in lieu any sort of normal human introduction.

"Heart attack," I answered, because that's what killed her.

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Rose frowned. "That's a technically accurate answer. Partial credit. What's your name?"

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"Almas."

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She nodded slowly. "Yes. That works. I'm Rose. You should grow your hair out. I bet it gets curly."

Then she left, which was fortunate, because the next thing out of my mouth was going to be, "Thank you. You, too," which is my default response every time my brain receives a faulty dialog query.

Grandpa Ron went next. Judging by the way he looked when he came in, Ron was more or less just a toothless skeleton wrapped in the skin of a brown leather La-Z-Boy someone had left out on their curbside 20 years ago hoping the garbagemen would pick it up, except they didn't. The fact that Grandpa Ron had died from a massive head injury suffered while falling down the stairs didn't help. Manly ended up having to remove most of the bones in the old man's neck and then prop the head up on a pile of wooden dowels. It felt like a little like constructing an Ikea bookcase.

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Unlike Esther, Old Ron at least had money, so his service was a bit more enthusiastic. It was almost as if Ron's relatives thought there might have been a clause in his will stating that the person who made up the most impressive bullshit story about how much Ron had taught them/inspired them/meant to them would win a new car.

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Again, though, there was Rose. I had recognized a few of the other family members first, but hadn't thought much of it. It's not that big a town, and - not to be grim - but death tends to come in waves. So I was surprised to see her sitting there, staring at me, as her cousin Richie droned on about a fishing trip with Grandpa Ron that I'm sure he hated with every ounce of his being when it happened.

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After the service, Rose came to me again.

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"D'you know how Grampie died?"

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"Broken neck and blood loss, I believe."

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"I actually really did like Grampie," she said. "He had a glass jar on top of the refrigerator, full of heart-shaped lollipops. Every time I visited he asked me what I was learning in school. Multiplication? he'd say. Well, what's five times three? And if I answered right I got a lollipop. He let me stay the whole summer once, too. We went for walks every day. He was really good to me. He really got me, I think. That's how I know he's happy. He was always there to help me."

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"Seems like a very nice man," was all I could think to say.

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"Can you show me the caskets?" she asked.

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I frowned. "Are you...looking to buy?"

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But she just tugged at my arm. "I want to see." So I showed her and I answered her questions and at the end she leaned forward and kissed me in the center of the showroom, surrounded on all sides by open caskets.

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She didn't give me her number. I assumed the kissing was a coping mechanism. People deal with grief in their own way, you know.

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But then her cousin Richie died. The one with the fishing story. And then another aunt died - Pearl. Cousin Michaela. An uncle named Ross.

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A boating accident. Another heart attack. An overdose. A hunting accident.

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How could any family be so unlucky?

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It wears on you, working in a funeral home. There is no such thing as desensitization. The sensitivity doesn't go away, it just burrows underground. Every dead body is it's own existential crisis. This could be ME. THIS could be me. This could BE me.

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It's worse, though, when you knew the body in life. With every funeral I began to feel I knew Rose's family a little better. I knew the names and the faces. That only made mangling their corpse for cosmetic purposes all the more horrifying.

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Richie lost an arm. We stuffed some pantyhose with newspaper and pushed that inside the empty sleeve of his suit jacket. More dental work for Pearl. Glass eyes and a gallon of make-up for Michaela. Closed casket for Ross because we couldn't make a face from nothing.

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Always, always Rose sat in the audience, looking at me. Never crying. I liked her company and I loved the feeling of her in my arms, but I couldn't deny that I had begun to dread seeing her. How could this be healthy? How could it be okay? I couldn't control what Rose did, but I could control myself.

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"I'm feeling a bit under the weather," she said as she approached me at the door. "Can you take a lady for a walk? Help me get some fresh air?"

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I shook my head. "I can't. No more, okay. I...I don't want to do this anymore."

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She pouted. "You don't like me anymore?"

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"Give me your number," I said. "We can go out. Go to the movies. Get dinner. Something else. But I'm not doing this anymore."

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"No," she said, all the playfulness drained away. "This. This is what we do. I go to all this trouble to see you...This is where I want to see you. This is how I want to see you."

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"Then no." I had thought I would be sad to say it. In fact, I was worried I wouldn't be able to say it at all. But it felt right, and it felt good.

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"You'll change your mind," she said, backing away, one foot swinging slowly behind the other. "We'll talk again next time. I bet you'll change your mind." And then she left.

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All of which is a very roundabout way of saying yes, I realize that my work experience isn't what you would typically see in an applicant, but I firmly believe that my work ethic, decision-making, and self-motivation are all qualities that will profoundly benefit this Smoothie Hut.

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Thank you for your consideration. I hope to hear from you soon.