10 years ago, for a few days, Mom and I were reverse-door-to-door salesmen and we scoured the South Bend area looking for a place to bury the dead. I was 14, the deceased was Mom’s father, and in the golden days of summer I dug through plots and books of service regimens, and price cards trying to help my mom make decisions that she simply could not make alone. I like to think that I really understood what was happening. I like to think I wasn’t simply playing entrepreneur-Patrick and only trying to wheel and deal. I can’t be sure. But what I do know is that when Mom found that one certain alcove just finishing construction, the decision was made. Where he would be, where Grandma would be, and where she would be, now.

After Chris, Micam and I got home tonight, after the bereavement incident, I cringed as I noticed the late hour. I wandered around the house, searching for something to do. Played with Micam for a bit - watched Dad considering pouring another drink, and then change his mind. The house was overflowing with family and sleeping arrangements were being discussed. Anywhere, but not anywhere near me, I thought. I just wanted my little boy and my girlfriend — everyone else could be miles away.

I’m dreading tomorrow - the formality of it all. Mom would say: eat cake, play cards, do some scratch offs. Chris would agree and that would be it. I kind of wish that was what was happening. And in preparation for knowing that I wouldn’t set foot in that place for the next 10, 15 years (at least not willingly) I made the decision to tell Chris that there was just something that I needed to do. And she happily complied.

My sunroof was open. I didn’t cry. I flew down Main Street getting my adrenaline up, people trying to kill me with their metal bullets left and right (maybe it was me) and found myself approaching the place Mom and I would go together when she needed a break and just wanted to sit awhile. And as I parked outside of that mausoleum, I knew that this would be the last time I would be here by myself for a very, very long time to come. And I was only going to see Grandma and Grandpa for the last time for a while, and to prove to myself where my mother’s corpse would be in just a few hours.

The door squeaked. Loudly. It always does. And the minute that I walked in, I could see the chapel area setup with its gold padded folding chairs, and could easily sense, even with my eyes closed, where I would most likely be sitting the next morning. Mom loved this place. It was her first idea. And I remember the negotiations that she went into trying to get it as a location for us to shoot at for Scenarios, way back in the day. Wheeling and dealing. I considered it peaceful, yet macabre.

I walked forward, into the area of the alcoves and trailed into that old rugged cross, stained with blood so divine - and stopped. The crypt was open. Preparing for tomorrow. I could see the dark, black of Mom’s future. If that’s what you believed. I did not.

I stepped onto my tip-toes and peered inside. Cold. It was a horizontal cellar, formed to store the secrets of the family. So, I turned around and instead looked at the plants left over for her parents, put here by her while she could still drive. There was a bench in the corridor. I went to sit down.

Many things went through my mind. Images of her taking care of me as a child. Images of her taking care of me last week. Days dedicated to As the World Turns marathons on DirecTV and baskets of marked up crossword puzzle books. The sound of her voice, now gone, forever - except for the remnants of already-played voice mails still sitting on my cell from days ago.

We used to walk to the other end of the building and take in the stained glass artistry before leaving for the store, the pharmacy, the gas station to buy her cigarettes. I chose to follow that trek for the last time. I crossed the other alcoves. I crossed the chapel. I heard the toilet in the lobby gurgle as to maliciously knock me over with fright. I stared at the carpet; clean and recently vacuumed. I smelled the air freshener, covering the stench of sweet death. I came to the end, turned around and stepped on the fresh ash of a cigarette. A chill filled me to every end.

Apparently, during my bereft march through the mausoleum, Mom took it upon herself to light a cigarette and join me in my pace. I took this as a jubilant proclamation that you can indeed have a coke and smoke even after death. I checked my shirt to make sure I hadn’t somehow ashed on myself in the car, but there was nothing to be found. And as I traced back my steps toward The Alcove of the Old Rugged Cross, the ashes lined my previous steps with such precision that there was no way they could have fallen randomly from me.

My walk turned into a brisk jog - and the other end of the building seemed so far. I guided my steps to avoid crushing any ashes, considering them constitutions to Mom’s persevering existence. I came to the bench I was sitting on before, and collapsed. Tears flowing for both her life, and her relentlessness in letting me know all was okay.

With my eyes closed, I took slow breaths - anticipating opening my eyes to see it was all another trick of the mind. I pried open my lids in defiance while locking gaze on the ceiling, analyzing the ornate patterns in the plaster. My eyes pivoted closer to the floor and I spied the the chests of urns on display behind cold glass, a notion that Mom and I always found to be very strange. I challenged my logic, told myself to let it be, and then let it go, excused by a simple happenstance. I didn’t noticed when I came in. I was distraught and distracted. The waxed vinyl of the yellow padded chairs had blinded my eyes. A cleaning crew or maintenance had sneaked a cigarette. A security guard patrolling for pot-infused teens.

And then I saw it. Resting comfortably on the toe of my boot, another fresh ash doing its balance act as to not fall. And a warm, calming air rustled inside of me.

I drove home, and had cake with Christine. We did some scratch offs.

10:19 pm

tags: chris, mausoleum, mom, old rugged cross