Confessions · Essay
inventory of a morgue refrigerator at 3 a.m.
no one who works here calls it a morgue refrigerator.
it is the cooler.
the word is almost casual enough to make it harmless.
check the temperature.
check the identification.
check that every zipper is closed.
three names on the whiteboard.
three bodies behind the insulated door.
three families somewhere in the city trying to understand why the world continued long enough to become tomorrow.
the door opens with a soft pull of suction. cold slips beneath my sleeves.
one arrived from the hospital with her belongings folded into a clear plastic bag. slippers. glasses. a paperback with the receipt still tucked inside.
one is already embalmed. his hands have been placed carefully over his stomach, fingers resting together in a gesture he probably never made while he was alive. tomorrow, someone will say he looks peaceful. we worked very hard to manufacture that peace.
the third came in after midnight.
his shoes are in a grocery bag beneath the stretcher, tied twice by someone who did not know what else to do with their hands.
all accounted for.
that is the phrase.
as if a person can be accounted for by matching a name to a metal tray.
the dead rarely look asleep. sleep still contains intention. a body sleeping is expected to turn over, scratch its cheek, become irritated by the light.
the dead have stopped intending.
people ask whether this work frightens me.
they mean the bodies.
the bodies are the easiest part.
they do not demand an explanation. they do not ask whether the service will make this bearable. they do not apologize for crying and then apologize again for not crying enough. they do not tell me they should have called more often.
the living do that.
the dead are quiet in a way the living never manage to be.
close the cooler door.
hear it seal.
check it again.
the preparation room light is still on.
stainless steel reflects everything without keeping any of it. the sink has been rinsed. the instruments are soaking. cotton clings to the edge of the counter like a small white animal someone forgot to rescue.
the room smells like disinfectant, cosmetics and something metallic beneath both.
death does have a smell.
so does its removal.
there is powder on the counter in a shade called warm ivory. there are sutures in a drawer beside a half-eaten granola bar. there is a photograph taped to the cabinet because sometimes the face on the table needs to be reminded how it belonged to itself.
mouth closed.
eyes set.
hair combed.
we rebuild familiarity from tissue and wax, then let the family call it closure.
i turn off the light.
the chapel is next.
tonight’s flowers have started to surrender. lilies opening too far. rose petals bruising at the edges. the whole room thick with sweetness and decay, which feels less like a contradiction after you have worked here long enough.
someone left a tissue folded beneath the second pew.
someone else left a fingerprint on the casket.
i leave that where it is.
not everything needs to be polished away.
the arrangement office is dark except for the computer screen. an unfinished obituary waits beneath a blinking cursor.
she will be lovingly remembered by…
there is always a list.
children. grandchildren. siblings. friends.
then another list for those who died first.
a whole life divided into survived by and predeceased by, as though death is an administrative problem and not a door being kicked open inside a family.
save.
close.
lights off.
the funeral home changes after midnight.
during the day, it performs calm. soft lamps. quiet voices. coffee poured into porcelain cups. every door opening gently for someone whose life has just become before and after.
at night, the performance ends.
the building hums.
the cooler runs.
the clock above reception becomes offensively loud.
i forward the phones and check the transfer cot. clean sheet. pillow. straps. gloves. identification bands.
everything ready for the next person whose ordinary evening is about to become our night shift.
i lock the front entrance.
then i walk back and check it, because this work teaches you that certainty is temporary and mistakes can follow a family forever.
the alarm gives me thirty seconds to leave.
before i do, i stand outside the cooler one last time.
three names.
three bodies.
three entire worlds reduced, temporarily, to temperature control and paperwork.
“goodnight,” i say.
not because i believe the dead are listening.
because the living spend all day speaking around them, over them and about them.
because goodnight is still a form of care.
because somebody should be the last person in the building to remember that the inventory is not inventory.