#I got emotional over working in deathcare again

[hail-our-lady-underground]

Death is the moss on the headstone I remove with my thumb as a family member tells me how they need to clean the family graves. We bury the dead beneath the green flakes.

Death is the sweat down my back and the ache in my feet. It is the way funeral goers have come up to me to ask how I “deal with this”. I tell them it is beautiful, in it’s own tragic way.

Death is the water in the flower vases pouring down my arm and staining my uniform. It is cleaning leaves out the hearse. It is the smell of the prep room and the chill of the freezer, both not as bad as you’d think.

Death is a family member holding up a toddler to reach toward a dead relative they will not remember. It is the open casket. It is the slight awkward nature of closing it.

My Gods are death, and they’re slick and mean. They are cruel rot and crueler tears. They surround me with music and flowers. Butterflies eat from the cemetery stands. They take and they take and it’s all worth it. It’s all worth it to see them move their hands, mighty and skeletal.

I thank you, oh Gods. Thanatos, Hades, Persephone, I thank you for standing near me. There are so many flowers here.