Mrs. Morrison Corrects Her Obituary
Mrs. Morrison Proofreads Her Obituary
Amelia Morrison, beloved [neglected] wife and [disappointed] mother, [also, a limber and enthusiastic lover to several of her husband’s grad students] passed away last night [which dear hubby only noticed today].
Born locally in 1952, she loved [loathed] our little town. [After the pregnancy test came up positive on graduation night,] T[t]his Woodrow High valedictorian dedicated herself to domestic joys. She is survived by Mr. Robert Morrison, their two adult children, and her cherished Pomeranian, Muffins [the only defense against an allergic daughter with a penchant for blowing up her life and boomeranging back home]. Unfortunately, her son can’t attend tomorrow’s funeral [due to incarceration] but will join in spirit. Her bereaved daughter, Mary Morrison, caught the first flight in [and already cleared the house of jewelry and electronics]. In lieu of flowers, she asks for donations toward a commemorative bench [frozen forehead and camel lips].
Always altruistically minded, Mrs. Morrison chaired the volunteer committee for Our Ladies of Ashland, and thought of the other volunteers as sisters. [How else was she to keep a lid on the rumor mill those bitches live for?] In her spare time, she enjoyed reading [oh, sweet sweet escape] and gardening [the tool shed out back offered a nice spot for toking up]. Her other interests included music [though—gosh, darn—her loved ones can’t recall a single one of her favorite bands] and crime shows [especially where the wife offs the husband and gets away with it].
The family [Mrs. Morrison] would like to extend a warm thank you to the staff of the Angel Memorial General Hospital who took such good care of Mrs. Morrison in the final years of her life [in 1969, when a young gynecological shift nurse, whose name is now lost to time, whispered “I know a place.” And then held her hand in the back room of a veterinarian clinic, and didn’t flinch when she ran out in her slip into the freezing rain. And cried with her, but understood that the pain of a silver cross grazing the collarbone and igniting the warning flame of eternal damnation wouldn’t be washed away].
The Angel Memorial General Hospital had long been dear to Mrs. Morrison’s heart for helping bring her own precious angels into the world, and she contributed generously to their annual fundraisers. [, but did she contribute as generously to her children? Even after she willed herself to dream of only them and anchored her heart to the eye of their storm, did they somehow still know that they hadn’t been wanted? Is this why they’re pathologically unable to stop taking? Why they move through life with the ferociousness of those who suspect they are in it alone?]
The family would also like to express gratitude to Coroner Schmidt, a long-time family friend, who rushed over on his day off to attend to the body.[, probably counting on his halitosis to wake the dead. But alas, no cigar, old friend. Thanks for trying. You always were one of the good ones. Maybe if it had been you in the backseat after prom. . . Loreina is a lucky lady.]
Betrothed [Bamboozled] shortly after high school and married for over fifty years, Mrs. and Mr. Morrison worked hard to keep their romance alive. [Mr. Morrison can look forward to an avalanche of interchangeable V-day/birthday/anniversary teddy bears that will rain on his head from various pantries and closets. They are the ghosts of his laziness and will haunt him forever.] Robert cannot imagine life without his other half, but is deeply moved by the outpouring of support from friends, neighbors, and former students.[such as Giovani Saladino, who was the most promising and handsome and pillow-talked of the Mediterranean coastline and said “a different way for you to be, over there” so convincingly that it blistered for years.]
Our dear Amelia will be remembered as a sweet, traditional lady, who gave much to her community and smiled so brightly. Come celebrate her tomorrow at Ashland Town House Church, from 2:00-3:00. Service to follow, including the sprinkling of ashes over the Sinai Hill, her favorite picnic spot. [, where in between bites of cucumber sandwiches and pecan pie brownies she looked over the edge of town and sometimes further across the multiverse. From this spot she could peek into a life not pinned by predictability. She saw another version of herself there. She watched her navigate projects, teams, departments, organizations. Saw her take out the trash in her underwear, fight when angered, cry openly in public—never deterred by the watchful eyes about. Nor those above or within.]
Though our hearts break, we know she’s at peace [nothing]. [She spent her life as an apparition: a silent translucent figment of our imaginations. This manifestation is her final attempt at being rendered visible, if only just once.
She leaves behind the dusty duffle bag she packed on graduation day and an unused bus ticket that once smelled of mountain snow, and spring valleys, and the sweat of skyscrapers on a hot summer day, but now only smells of rot.]
