Viv: That’s ur problem right there. Burned toast really can’t handle that much pressure. Just let it be burned toast.
Me: I’m going recruiting today.
Marin: For what?
Me: For our group.
Viv: Where are u going? And why are you recruiting? I like our group.
Me: The funeral home. And because there might be other women like us who need support.
Marin: Oh, Birdie.
Viv: That’s the big leagues! u should start with nursing homes or water aerobics or literally anywhere less depressing.
Marin: Viv. For the love of all that is holy. Please write out the word “you.” I beg you. That poor vowel is sitting there, all alone.
Viv: That’s your problem, Birdie. You’re always looking for other people to focus on so you don’t have to focus on yourself.
Me: 1000% not a thing.
It’s definitely a thing.
Me: Wishme luck!
______________
I walk into Greenwood Memorial & Funeral Home, dressed in my blue blazer and carrying a stack of freshly printed flyers like I’m selling Girl Scout cookies instead of grief. The guy at the front desk runs a hand through his thinning, brown hair before eyeing my flyers. Judging by the look on his face, you’d think I was about to hand him a dead cat.
“Hi.” I give an awkward little wave with one hand while setting down my pile of flyers on the desk. “I was wondering if I could post this flyer for a support group I run?”
He blinks and doesn’t return my smile. “What kind of group?”
There’s a long pause while I wrack my mind for the mental script I’d prepared on the drive over here, because saying it to the rearview mirror in the car and saying it aloud at a funeral home are two entirely different things. “The Dead Husbands Society.”
His face tightens, like I just punched him in the soul.
The silence stretches, and my mind goes blank. In my desperation and panic to fill the awkwardness, I can’t remember my script. “I figured people come here after their spouse dies, and maybe they need support… or friends… or matching shirts?”
His voice is flat. “We don’t have a bulletin board.”
My years of trying to sell baked goods at school fundraising events kick in and I counter, “Well, do you make recommendations?”
“Yes. For florists. For grief counselors. Not… clubs.” He pushes a corner of one flyer to the side, and the sun filtering through the large window catches the copious amount of glitter I used to outline the letters. Damn it, Viv. More glitter doesn’t equal better.
I pivot. “I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for twenty-three years. My last big recruitment effort was getting people to volunteer for a bake sale. I’m a little rusty.” Then I tack on a forced laugh that falls flat in the silencebetween us.
He doesn’t join me.
Then, I swear, I black out for a second, not a medical blackout, simply a moment when my mouth keeps moving but my brain is on vacation.
Suddenly, I hear myself say, “It’s not just a club. It’s a safe place for women whose lives fell apart. For people who’ve stood next to a casket wondering if they should feel relief, or rage, or nothing at all. For those of us who are sick of casseroles and polite small talk!”
He stares at me like I’m unraveling right there in front of him. Which, honestly, I kind of am.
Then I add, “I didn’t mean to start it. One day I’m thinking that I’m healing, and then I’m sobbing in the park, and the next thing I know I’m trauma-bonding with two women I’ve never met on the internet over knitting patterns and furniture and yoga and Target.”
And then because I apparently have lost all people and recruiting skills, I add, “Have you ever lost someone?”
