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donna geronimo (fancypants) wrote,
@ 2003-02-08 14:35:00
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    this piece is still in progress

    When I was three, my mother took me to funeral houses to watch strangers be buried, mourned. So I'd be used to death. So I'd know the smells, the colors.

    My mother to herself, meaning to everyone, "I don't like meat. It's eating dead animals."
    My mother to everyone, meaning everyone, "Chicken for dinner tonight"

    My grandfather died in 1993. His last two words were "Jesus. Elvis." My mother and her sister and their mother sat shiva, ate cold chicken, covered their mirrors. This was in California, where his friends were. He was buried in a graveyard in Seattle, where his daughters lived. They got a discount on a double plot, so my grandfather will someday have company.

    Milk = white cow pus; veal = dead baby cow; beef = dead cow. Beef = what's for dinner.

    Every time my gerbils died, they were resurrected. Even after I was old enough to notice, they came back the next day, from cold to warm. Patricia would get a dye job, a new haircut, wouldn't know me.

    People in black mourning their great-aunt; a poorly dressed 3-year-old and a mom in a fake fur coat in the back pew. My Little Ponies played on the floor while people sobbed and elegies were read; I got a cookie from the table while black-stockinged ankles couldn't eat. Afterwards, McDonald's. A ChickenMcNugget happy meal.

    things I don't know: how to bring it together; it doesn't feel done but I don't know how to make it finished up. i don't know what it needs yet. thoughts? what works? what doesn't? what do you want to know more about?

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