SHE WAS A NIGHT OWL

The box she laid in was pretty. She liked pretty things. It came with all the latest features. Silver brushed with light blue finish, light blue velvet interior, in a French Fold design. She was a Francophile, she taught herself French, she loved everything French. She had planned to travel there one day, to Paris. To see the Eiffel Tower, to twirl underneath this wrought-iron lattice was a constant image in her mind. She would buy pain Poilâne in the Latin Quarter on Rue du Cherche-Midi, a bottle of wine at La Cave, cheese at Laurent Dubois, then lay down her blanket on Pont Neuf and spend the day enjoying the splendor of the banks of the Seine.

She married at a young age. Eighteen-gauge steel, full rubber gasket sealer, swing bar handle hardware, with a locking mechanism. She kept her desires locked away in her brilliant mind. She really had no choice, when you have 7 children to raise, the only thing that could be truly hers was neatly arranged in her frontal cortex. The house was a mess. Half couch, matching pillow and throw. She was an avid reader. She was a night owl. When the husband and the children were fast asleep, she read. She would lay on the couch, head propped on a pillow. The book dropping from her hand as her grip loosened and eye lids slowly closed. The book hitting the ground would sound the alarm, to wake again, this was her chance, her only chance to get out. Wide awake now, she would reclaim her book and devour it. ‘It is never too late to be what you might have been” was her favorite quote from the author that spoke to her most, George Eliot. An adjustable eternal rest bed for both head and foot. She was happy to get her foot in the door. It was a small office, but she was a working girl now. When her boss told her to not wear underwear she finished the day and never returned. She never said anything. It was her fault. She was beautiful. It made her uncomfortable. She could run fast. It made her uncomfortable. She was a happy housewife. Square corners with silver jewel-toned accessories. She loved jewelry. She had every kind imaginable. Aigrettes, chokers, pearl necklaces, pendants, torcs, armlets, bracelets, bangles, wedding ring, chatelaines. They lived in the center section of her large chestnut armoire. Each drawer was lined with red velvet. Through the years, the pieces disappeared. Worn by one of the children for their Halloween costume, dropped in a juniper bush, unbeknownst to the little pirate, never to be found again, borrowed by a friend and never returned. And the clip-on earrings, many of them lost to the garbage disposal. She was always over the sink, cleaning the bottles, the lunch boxes, the plates, the glasses, the glasses, the glasses. Continuous welded construction, completely sealing the bottom, memory and record tube, fits in standard burial vaults. She wanted a natural burial. Wrapped in a sheet and placed back into the earth. She had lived in a box all her life. She did not want to be buried in one. The family argued and fought, in the end, it was decided, “Going Home Monarch Blue Casket with Blue Velvet Interior-Metal.” It was on sale too.

Cassidy had a long day at work. She was struggling. The death of her mother was sudden, but not a surprise. It had been two weeks. She had prepared for this news daily for the last 20 years of her life. The preparation is pointless. She was numb at first. She was driving to her childhood home when the call came in, why was she not at work? She had called to let her boss know early that morning, but the message was not shared. She said she would not be in that day she told the caller, as her mother had died. She was extremely matter of fact.

A box was delivered. It was sent from her work. A box of fruit from some organic farm in New York. The box contained, plums, apples, quince she thought but was not altogether sure. She never ate the fruit. It rotted inside the box. She threw the box away in the dumpster behind her apartment building. She had taken some bread from work that night. She opened the fridge and pulled out some cheese. She let it sit on the counter to come to temperature. There is nothing worse than eating cold cheese. Nothing worse than your motherdying followed by three days of fighting with siblings over burial arrangements. “There must be an open casket!” exclaimed her eldest sister. She remembered the face of her mother in the private family viewing. She looked bluer than the coffin she was placed in. She looked terrible. Cassidy could never allow her mother to be seen this way at her funeral. The casket would be closed.

She placed the Epoisse on a board, with some nuts, dried Turkish figs, and the bread she brought from work. She was in the mood for a stinky cheese that night. Rumor has it that you can get kicked off a bus in Paris for having an open container of Epoisse. It was late and she was alone. She should not have been eating or drinking at such a late hour. The wine, a bottle of Macon-Villages blanc. She opened the sliding glass door to her balcony. It was the only balcony in the complex. She loved sitting on the balcony late at night. She brought her cheese, her bread, her wine and looked out into the night lights and views of the city. Her head was filled with memories and images of her mother. While she was enjoying the view, a beautiful white barn owl slowly flew toward Cassidy. She had never seen an owl in flight before. It was beautiful. The wings were grand. The owl flew so close that Cassidy was able to look into its tube-shaped black eyes. Gracefully, the owl lifted up over the balcony and continued into the moonlit sky. She was a night owl.