A Memoir by Stephen Niedzwiecki

We walked in hand-me-down suits through the parking lot. I stood below waist height to my father as he stopped and bent down before us to look us in the eye. “This might be a little scary,” he said. Hand in hand, he led us through the room full of people. From between their legs I saw an old man’s face in a box, his head resting on a white pillow. He was there, but he was not. Uncle Earl, I heard him called. My brothers knew him, but I did not. 

The women bent down and pinched our cheeks then turned to our father and mother. They talked in front of the box like he was there but wasn’t. My family approached the box, lined with cloth that reminded me of my blanket. I wondered what it was like to be in Uncle Earl’s place. 

The rain had started when we got back to the car. I stared out the window and imagined myself underground, talking to the others around me. It was a new idea to me, and I wasn’t sure if that’s how it worked. “What’s it like to be dead?” I asked. “Nothing. You’re just dead,” my mother replied. 

Still I imagined lying there in the dark, to be here and not here. I watched the raindrops stream along the glass and disappear.

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Stephen Niedzwiecki is a writer whose work spans fiction, journalism, and technical writing. He’s been featured in Written in Arlington and Macabre Magazine.