I give the lace cloth one last tiny adjustment and ignore his entirely too true observation. “I want this to go well,” I admit. “This is my uncle’s legacy, and I want to do right by him. I want this to be my future. I can’t afford to mess up the incredible chance he’s given me.”
“It’s not Jeremiah’s funeral home anymore,” Ember says bluntly. “Stop trying to impress a man who is already happily dead.”
I don’t respond because I don’t know how to. He’s not wrong; Jeremiah’s final years on this earth were unforgiving and painful. He had to be exhausted at the end. The funeral home suffered as well, and in my need to please everyone in my life, I keep forgetting that I should be living more for me, not everyone else.
The bell over the front door gives a soft, melodicDING, announcing the first guests for Mr. Pickles’ funeral.
For a brief, ridiculous second, I feel proud. The door opened smoothly. Thank goodness the house is cooperating. I did have a smidge of worry that it would resent being a funeral home once again, but I’m relieved that it is content with its purpose.
Miss Geraldine steps inside, clutching a blue cotton handkerchief in her hands. She’s small, slightly hunched, her shoulders curving inward like the weight of grief is physically weighing on her. Grief does that sometimes. Folds people in on themselves.
“Miss Geraldine,” I say, gently taking a step forward. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she whispers. Her lips tremble as she tries to muster a smile.
Behind me, Ember has righted himself and is now sitting upright, swinging his legs and examining the ceiling medallion like it’s the first time he’s seen it. At least he’s behaving.
Miss Geraldine approaches the viewing stand, and the moment she sees Mr. Pickles in the basket, she breaks. A soft, startling sound leaves her, and then she’s crying. Not quietly, but openly. Her grief is deep and real, and I feel bad for ever feeling disappointed that my first funeral is forjust a cat. Obviously, Mr. Pickles meant the world to this woman.
My chest tightens, sympathy filling my heart. This is something that I’m never prepared for. Witnessing someone fall apart in front of me and knowing that it’s not my job to fix it. I’m here to hold space and encourage the grieving process. I’m here to keep the momentum going so the person grieving doesn’t stall. I’m not here to comfort or give false platitudes. That’s whatfriends and family are for. I cannot insert myself into their grief, no matter how much I feel like I should.
She reaches out a trembling hand and strokes the cat’s fur lovingly.
“Oh, Mira,” she whispers.
Uhm… What the fuck? Who is Mira?
I keep my face neutral even as my brain quietly spirals.
Did I fuck up? Is this not Mr. Pickles' funeral? How did I get so much information wrong?
“It’s so comforting,” she continues tearfully, “knowing she’ll always find her way back to me.”
Ember’s kicking slows as Miss Geraldine’s words finally register with him.
“Back to you?” I ask, keeping my voice steady even as my heart threatens to beat out of my chest as I try so hard not to panic.
“My great Aunt Mira,” she explains, dabbing her eyes delicately. “I didn’t realize at first, of course, but after Mr. Pickles passed, I went through her journals. She said she’d come back as something graceful and completely independent. She didn’t want to have to depend on anyone else ever again after her last marriage.”
Ember stands up on his chair to get a better view of the cat in the basket as if it might’ve shape shifted since the last time he saw it.
“The way Mr. Pickles used to sit on the back of the sofa and stare at me? That was her. Judging me. Just like when I cut my own bangs or bought a floral sofa.” Miss Geraldine smilesfaintly through her tears as I struggle to keep my professional composure straight and unshaken.
“So,” I say carefully, “you believe your cat was actually your reincarnated great aunt?”
“Yes,” she says, nodding with complete certainty.
Welp. There it is. My first funeral, and it’s for a reincarnated great aunt. That sounds about right. I’ve never done things the normal way, so it makes sense that my first funeral also wouldn’t be normal.
Behind her, Ember slides off the chair and walks quietly toward the grieving woman, hands clasped behind his back. He studies her for a second, not mocking or amused, but curious.
“That is fascinating,” he murmurs.
“Oh! I didn’t realize you had a child,” Miss Geraldine startles.
“I don’t,” I say immediately.
“Did your aunt also exhibit territorial behavior and a tendency to knock objects off elevated surfaces while maintaining eye contact?” Ember continues, ignoring the poor woman’s confusion.
