The Funeral Dress

I searched everywhere -my closet, the pile of clothes accumulating on my bedroom floor, even my dresser drawers, despite knowing I would never have put it there. I checked my latest dry cleaning bags, but it wasn't there either. I was already running late, and now I couldn't find my funeral dress anywhere. I started visualizing the dress, hoping that this mental effort would help materialize the article of clothing: black rayon/cotton blend, two inches below the knee, three-quarter length sleeves. Understated. Conservative. Respectful. Where is that dress?

Of course I have other black dresses, but none of them are as perfectly appropriate for this occasion. They are either too short, too sexy, or too casual. They aren't my funer--- and then it hit me. I have a "funeral dress." All of a sudden I realized that going to memorial services has become such a common occurrence in my life that I actually have a dress mentally designated just for them. I don't even know when I started referring to it as such. I remember buying it a couple of years ago the day before I had to attend a service. But now, as I got ready to attend yet another one, I realized that I had indeed worn this same dress to three other services in the past two years, and along the way it had become marked in my subconscious to be worn only at these such occasions. 

A couple of hours later, I stood outside the always too-crowded viewing room, beneath a mammoth tree. I stared up through its branches and thought about life and its unpredictability. I thought about the first service I attended at this very same spot, almost fifteen years ago -a young man who left long before his time should have been up on this planet. The following year, it was my grandmother. Since then, there have been many others -each with his or her own story, each leaving behind a chasm in people's lives. 

Then I thought about all the new lives that I've seen come into the world over the years -first my friends' children, and now my baby nephew- and I reflexively smiled. The cycle of life. I pondered about the things that used to matter once upon a time, when I knew less. I thought about my friends and family and the choices we make. I especially thought about this past year, how I've been living my life much differently -with greater intention, a deeper engagement with life itself. I've struggled with the should have's and could have's and have come to love the "what is" of my life. I hope to continue living this way from here on out, because the truth is we never really know how long we have to enjoy this miraculous space. 

Wonder Bread

During lunch, I often stayed in the classroom, asking the teacher if there was anything I could do –erase the blackboard, organize books- anything was better than having to go outside and be with the other kids. Teachers were safe. They didn’t look at me because I wore ruffled dresses and hand-knit sweaters, or stare at me with a funny look when I unpacked my lunch –usually filled with some type of homemade food the other children had never seen before.

"What is that?" I remember one of the boys saying to me one day, as I unpacked my potato parantha from its plastic wrapping. It was long before sushi and other "ethnic" foods became trendy, a far cry from today's first-grader trying to trade her Lunchables for someone's spicy tuna.

"It's Indian food. My mom made it,” I replied indignantly. 

"Well, it looks gross," he said. I was embarrassed. Hot tears sprung to my eyes as I noticed other kids now looking at my lunch questioningly. Now I was angry.

"It's not gross. You’re gross. You always bring the same squishy sandwich to school.”

I was six. It was the best retort I could come up with. And it was true, that Kevin brought a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich to school every single day, and he always seemed to get the jelly all over the lower half of his face. The truth was, though, that I wished for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich every time I opened up my brown paper bag. Why did we have to be so different from everyone else? There were a few other ethnic kids in my school, but they all seemed to have “normal” lunches. Why did my parents insist on me taking something different every day? I knew the only way I could stop the teasing was if I somehow convinced my mother to let me take the kinds of lunches all the other kids were packing.

"But, beta, a slice of cheese or jelly between two pieces of white bread isn't healthy for you. The food I cook for you will make you smarter, will make you stronger." 

"I don't want to be stronger. I don't want to be smarter," I cried. "Why can't I just take a sandwich like everyone else?"

For the next few weeks, I got everything from lentils to cooked spinach and potatoes, but she wouldn’t budge. The complaining wasn’t working. I finally realized I had to take matters into my own hands. I came up with a plan; I would just toss my lunch out. I'd keep the fruit if I had any, but that was it. That was easy. I should have come up with the idea sooner. Sure, I was starving by the time I got home after school, but my mother didn't question my now voracious appetite for a snack before dinner. And I almost got away with it.

Unfortunately, by day four of my plan, my teacher called home- apparently concerned that I had forgotten my lunch three times this week. From what I could hear from my end of the conversation, I had been found out. She nodded into the phone, a concerned look on her face. "I see...no, thank you for calling...of course, I understand. Thank you again." My mother was smart. She would go through the trashcans and find out what I had done. Now I was in big trouble. I contemplated my punishment. No cartoons probably. Or maybe I would have to write, "I will not waste food," a hundred times. I braced myself and waited for the yelling to begin. Instead, she said nothing. She gathered her purse and her keys. “Let's go to the store."

I still remember that next day clearly. I sat on the same bench that I sat at everyday, with the same classmates I sat with everyday. Yet the feeling I had was something new, a nervous excitement in the pit of my stomach. I reached into the bag and found exactly what I was looking for –next to a pack of Lay's potato chips was the shiny foil-wrapped square. I opened it slowly, unveiling a cheese sandwich. I lifted the bread. No mayo. No mustard. Just two slices of plain white Wonder Bread, and a single slice of American cheese.  I looked around at the other kids. I smiled at Kevin's purple-smeared face. No one commented or asked what I brought to school. No one seemed to notice what I was eating -not a single person- and it was the best feeling in the world.