She double-checked the address on the order sheet, then addressed the envelope to the couple using the same fine calligraphy they would print on their custom wedding invitations.
She was under no obligation to do it, it was simply a delivery of their invitation proof, but she truly loved what she did, and she knew it made her little boutique business stand out.
Her grandma would be proud.
Grandma was the one who found the calligraphy class at the library when Elena told her she despised dance, all the way back in grade school.
Elena stood, took her wine glass, and clinked it in a cheers with the ceramic swan urn holding Grandma’s ashes, then put down the glass and picked up the envelope.
Elena almost walked out the door, in her jeans.
Her whole torso drooped when she realized she couldn’t walk to the post office.
Changing into a dark top and skirt…does this look mournful enough? … she grabbed the envelope again to drop on her way to the funeral home.
Charlie wasn’t flying back from Maui- “too expensive, too much work I’d miss”- so Elena would be her mother’s only child at the visitation.
Driving, she rehearsed a few polite responses to “I’m sorry for your loss.”
There were plenty of open parking spaces at the funeral home. She guessed her stepdad, who she barely knew, didn’t have very many friends either.
Inside the funeral home, Don waved but didn’t approach her. She would take that for the gift it was.
Elena turned and viewed the photo collage.
There was a cute one of mom and Charlie on the giant slide at Belle Isle when he was about three. Her throat tightened, just a bit, but she realized that a photo of a complete stranger playing with her child might elicit that response under the right circumstances.
There was an entire board of photos that looked to be mom at work or at work outings, cubicles and dry erase boards in the background, a groundbreaking ceremony of some sort.
Elena turned again, wondering if any of her old classmates saw the obit and showed up.
She took a step forward, toward the nearest bouquet, and a woman stepped in front of her.
“Elena?”
“Yes, I’m Elena.”
Elena didn’t recognize the woman, then two more women she didn’t recognize appeared behind the first. All three looked empathetic, but all three leaned forward, making Elena feel like they were looking at a rainbow skink terrarium at the zoo.
“We worked at Strickmire with Arlene, we’re so sorry for your loss.”
Elena got the TH in thank you out before one of the women said “The poems you wrote for your mother were absolutely beautiful.”
Elena stepped back as the third woman added “Both in penmanship and content. Just extraordinary.”
Without looking down, Elena wedged her right thumbnail underneath the nail of the middle finger on her left hand.
She could have asked “What poems?”, but she was pretty certain she knew.
The mild pain she was causing herself bought her time to slow down and be diplomatic.
“Thank you,” she said and stammered three more thank yous.
“Arlene was so blessed to have a daughter who loved her as much as you do.”
Elena knew her nostrils must have flared.
She dug the nail deeper and nodded her head, rather dumbly, she thought.
One woman dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
Elena wondered if the women expected her to be weepy, even distraught.
“If there’s anything we or anyone at Strickmire can do for you, please let us know. We consider you our own little poet laureate.”
The woman held a business card out and Elena pulled her right hand away from her left, taking the card and placing it in the pocket of her skirt. She thought there was a 50/50 chance she’d wash the skirt without remembering the business card.
“I think I’d like to look at more pictures…of mom.”
The women all smiled sweetly. Elena thought if she pressed their heads together they would melt into one big smile.
Elena turned and walked to the photo board with the work photos.
She leaned in.
As she guessed, there, hanging in her mom’s cubicle, were framed poems, in calligraphy, that Elena had written for, and in honor of Grandma.
***
Wow. There’s a lot to unpack in that relationship.
You tell great funeral stories – always a surprise (just short of the corpse sitting up and saying hi!)
Artfully done, Jimmy. Reading that was fresh air on a Sunday morning.