Soapbox Diner
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Death in small lacy shoeboxes |
10.28.07 |
Once upon a time, back in the trailer court times, I had a pregnant neighbor. Only she got sick one day, and had to go to the hospital. When she got home, her baby bump was gone. And so I went, dutiful acquaintance and neighbor I was, to give the bereaved my condolescences.
We sat on her stoop, drank thin coffees, talked and even a little bit cried. Through her tears she brought out a small shoebox adorned with little bits of lace ribbon and hot-glued satin that would have made a scrap booker flush.
She gently rested the box on her lap and lifted it's lid very carefully. She handed it to me, and as my eyes focused on its contents, my stomach heaved. There inside the small lacy shoebox were a tiny hospital wristband the size of a ring and photos of her blue-gray stillborn daughter.
I remember thinking to myself, "My God, who takes photos of their dead children and shares them with their neighbors?" But that wasn't it, the question I really wondered was, "Why would a mother do that to herself - bear keepsakes of mortality to run sad mother fingers over? Who would want to remember so vividly such a heart wrenching time?"
Which brings me back to today. The real estate agent has listed the house, posted the MLS, and completed the virtual tour. The street sign is up and stocked full of flyers. He said, "Here's the URL, too, if you'd like to share the tour with friends or family."
And that thought feels a lot like my own lace and satin shoebox with pictures of death inside. And in a way I can now understand the pride of creation or acquisition that would make one want to share - to say, "See here? This was a wonderful thing that I once had, that now I have no more. Wasn't it glorious?"
But the thought of sharing that with someone else still feels a little bit like saying, "Hey, come on over here. Let me show you some pictures of grandpa in the casket."
Somehow, I think that would be uncomfortable for everyone involved.
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