Funeral Plan

My hands had been jerking with anticipation of getting away
From the house, writhing with relatives
With the flowers, sent ahead like shields
By friends too self-conscious to get any closer
With pots of golden potato soup and coconut crème pies
Piling up like a fortress against grief, the containers labeled with the contributors’ names
Like plaques to their sincerity, monuments to their loyalty.

But my feet shivered against the granite steps of the funeral home
And my fingers kept shying away from the brass door handle
Like a horse that can’t bring himself to step into the unknown dangers of a trailer, with its echoing footsteps and walls that rush up to grab at him when he backs up too quickly.
I’m very aware of my heels on the checkered marble entryway
I snatch them off the floor with each step and try to plant them in a more stable square.
My mind rears in startled panic with the receptionist’s voice
Ah, she coos. But it sounds like aha! to the prickling antennae of my self-preservational instincts
Right this way
Mr. Berkenholf is waiting
And I turn to smirk at you so you know I heard her say Mr. Break-in-half too
But my elbow meets the empty air where your ribs should have been
There’s only click of the receptionist’s heels and a small man coming out of a doorway with skin that is too smooth and no one else.
Not even me.
Just the empty air between them and the coffins.