Blog #11--Painted Moons

The funeral parlor is the one used by our family for decades.  There are new owners now, but it's still the same place.  The old Victorian home was converted ages ago into the local funeral home.  The large wrap-around porch tells tales of a bygone era.  White wicker rocking chairs and tables line up waiting for outside visitors.  Not today.  It’s too cold and windy on this December day for settin’ on the porch. The house’s grand staircase greets me inside the front door with the antique painted flowers chandelier hanging in the foyer ready to hit my brother’s head if he steps too close; he side-steps it.  We're directed to the chapel on the right.  I hold my breath and enter.

Mom lies still, resembling sleep.  Her hands are folded, holding the cross of her rosary with the chain wrapped around her hands.  She kept  the rosary in her coin purse, the rosary's purpose was part of her soul.  I look at her nails, painted her color:  Revlon Red.  The polish is covering her entire nail beds—her moons.  I weep.  It’s wrong!  I brought Mom’s lipstick and nail polish to the mortician only yesterday.  Mom never, ever painted her moons.  My requests to the mortician were simple:  don’t paint her moons and smear a little bit of her lipstick on each of her cheeks for blush—that’s the way Mom did it.  My unassertive requests fell on careless ears.

Seeing it now initiates a sniff.  My eyes are a waterfall of tears, while my shoulders crumple.  I want to correct this mistake.   I want Mom’s hands to resonate life.  The polish is wrong, oh, so wrong. This needs to be corrected now!  The redness of my face is evidence of my unhappiness.  Where's the funeral director?  Her nails need to be repainted.  I’ll do it myself.  Where's the polish?

I voice my concerns to my brother.  To say that I’m spitting mad is an understatement.  I'm disturbed by the scene and am making my own.  My brother holds me back.  His calm embrace hides my strife.  He whispers in my ear that I should remember Mom’s illuminated smile, her infectious laugh, her worse than Hee Haw repeat jokes, the creaminess of her crustless sweet potato pies, the ginger peachy chicken she made once a week from a recipe she found in the newspaper, and her classic scalloped corn casserole.  “Her painted moons mean nothing,” he sighs.  He doesn’t understand. 

Painted moons suffocate her fingers.  Her hands call to my burning red face.  These red flags on Mom’s fingers are smothering her hands; restricting the life already gone from her.  I’m breathing hard.  The painted moons are tormenting me.  I want to repaint Mom’s nails, but there’s no time.  The visitors are already through the door.  Each woman’s face I see with blush only makes me cry more.  At each handshake, I look down at their nails; some polishless, some painted.  If their moons are painted, it’s OK for them, but not for Mom.  They file past me one by one.

It’s time for the service to begin and everyone sits in the wooden folding chairs with the padded seats.  Reverend Wilson calls us to his attention as he stands at the podium and reads from the Bible.  He’s my minister, not Mom’s.  The Catholics wouldn’t provide a priest for her.  She’s only a Catholic on paper to them—no longer practicing, no longer tithing to them.  She was Catholic in her upbringing and in her heart; the heart that failed.

The service is over.  Time to say our good-byes.  The guests file past the coffin one more time.  Some kneel and say a prayer.  Others just stand for a moment looking at Mom and her painted moons.  The family is always the last to say good-bye.  It’s our turn.

I lay a photo of Amy next to Mom’s hands, taken on the day Mom died.  Amy is 4½ months old, sitting on Santa’s lap in her red plaid Christmas dress—her first Christmas, Mom's last.  She’s Mom’s first grandchild and my daughter.  My brother kisses Mom’s forehead.  My cries are sobs and hiccups.  We say our good-byes to Mom.  We get into our cars and turn on the car’s flashers.  The casket is being sealed while we wait.  The pall bearers bring out the casket.  Mom is placed in the hearse.  We get in line behind the hearse, ready to ride in the shadow of eternal painted moons.