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Ostomy Memories of a Funeral


MY WIFE AND I MET in 1966.  We married two years later.  In the interim, I would spend many hours at her parent’s home, having meals, meeting her many relatives.  She is one of five children.  One of her nieces, Jackie, struck me as particularly beautiful.  She was only thirteen years old in 1967 but, forgive me, sexy as a young goddess.  Jerry Lee Lewis would have gone berserk.  Yet, as physically gorgeous as she was, accompanied by a syrupy Southern drawl that would curl your toes, there was somehow a sad, unseen asterisk there, a circumstantial aura like a darkening cloud over her head that whispered surreptitiously to me that Jackie, poor kid, had already peaked.  The physical beauty that I saw would slowly dissipate through her teens, and she would have neither the opportunity nor the cerebral attributes to compensate.  A few months ago, I saw her again at a family funeral.  I couldn’t help staring.  Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, the expression she wore reflected not sadness exactly, but desolation, the natural product of a life of unfulfilled hopes and repetitive disappointments.  Perhaps it was just my overactive imagination but, working hard at it, I managed momentarily to summon that attractive little thirteen-year-old girl inside the aged Jackie, to see what she once briefly was, years and years ago.  Then the vision disappeared, as expired as the family member whose funeral we were attending.  I was relieved to escape early.  

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Hello HenryM.

I do so like your posts, which often prompt concepts in my own mind about the subject matter.

The very last phrase in this one evoked a smile and an ironic musing on how many people might come away from funerals relieved to escape - let alone escape early.
It's the funeral we don't escape from which often causes people anxiety before they finally get to attend. 
Best wishes


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