THE LAST PERFORMANCE

Where I come from in Southern California, people don't talk about our last performance. It’s not considered socially acceptable dinner talk, even though most of us go to great expense to prepare in advance for that end-of-life finale. If it ever comes to talking about my mother, I have a different reason.

Many of us set the stage for this event with extravagant décor, atmospheric lighting, and ambrosial floral displays. We choose from the finest brass, hardwood, and velvet to cover our final residences, which we line in meticulously folded pleats and ruffles of satin and taffeta. Professionals are hired to ensure we look our best. We are costumed to imitate royalty, tycoons, or movie heroes. Make-up artists reshape our eyebrows; plump, remodel, and smooth our faces; and tint our lips to ensure we look alive.

At the end of this great performance, our existence vanishes from conversation but not from memory. Come with me. Let’s break with taboo and tradition and talk about the last funeral you attended, then I’ll tell you my story.

Recall for a moment the closing performance of someone you didn’t know very well (to keep it less personal and emotional), but you attended any way, an event where this person rested in a casket and you were the observer. I’ll lead you from there with some questions to help you understand what went through my mind on the day I'm about to tell you about:

When you entered the scene, did someone find you a place to sit or did you find one for yourself?

Were you close enough to hear clearly and see well?

How did the staging arrangements seem? Did a wee voice inside of you accept what you saw or criticize the ambiance? Did you approve of the casket, its color and design?

Now, recall the smell of the flowers on display. Were there lots of them or just a few? Did you say to yourself, “Why aren’t there more?”

Remember the music. Was it joyful or somber? Did it make you sad for the departed? Did you cry? (We all know it’s okay to cry at funerals-- even men cry.) Did you look inside the casket? If so, did you recognize the person?

Now, I think you are ready for what I have to say.

I don't remember what my mother looked like. The image I retain of her is of the woman in her casket at the funeral parlor January 18, 2012. That wasn’t Mom. “Tell the funeral director,” a voice way back in my head said to me as I peered at the corpse in the coffin. But I couldn't do it. I knew why-- Mother still had power over me. “Don’t impose on anyone,” she said, even in death.

The woman in the long beige container was covered from the waist down by a half lid. Fake garish yellow and pink funeral flowers squatted on it. In life, Mother would not have appreciated the scraggly decorative twigs that spiraled out in a frenzy from the center of the flower ball. She would have kept her mouth shut at the sight of the glitzy sequin-covered magenta bow and the mass of green floral materials that hovered over her like a giant heap of football pompoms. It was not the elegant display I had admired in the color photo at the florist shop and nothing like the billowy Georgia O’Keeffe blossoms Mother would have liked. The vulgar arrangement was nothing at all befitting the mom I knew

Bracing the airwaves, however, was the floral scent my mother would have deserved, a rose and jasmine tribute to the sweet woman she was. It would have taken the edge off her death if she had been there.

The full-length pink chiffon dress on the woman in the casket was Mom’s. It was the one Mother wore at her fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration, twenty-eight years before. She had asked me to bury her in that dress. The chiffon lay gently around the strange woman’s neck and shoulders. It had been designed to fit comfortably across my Mom’s chest and down her arms. It ended in a simple embroidered trim at the wrists. Like velveteen, it was soft to the touch. The pink crystal beads the woman in the casket wore were a gift from me. Both of that lady’s breasts looked to be the same size, not at all like Mom’s. One of hers had been cut off years ago by a surgeon. She never wore a prosthesis.

I didn’t recognize the face. Whoever it was had no wrinkles, and her skin was as smooth as computer paper. When my mom neared the end of life, it was her face that communicated with me. It told me how she was feeling. I could read the furrows and know if she was well. I could tell when she was in pain. Her crinkled skin let me know if she needed something.

That’s the reason I never talk about the funeral.

The woman in the box with the manikin face wasn’t my mother.

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