Twenty Days to Launch
The woman on the gurney was called Inez, and she had died that morning after a long illness. Her hair was tied in fresh Senegalese twists; her sister had been braiding her hair as she died, and had refused to let anyone take her body until it was finished.
The preparations were simple: first, they would first clean her body with a rubbing-alcohol-and-water solution, and then moisturize her skin with oil steeped in amaryllis petals; second, they would place a bulb of florals inside her mouth, to mask the scent of death; third and last, they would wrap her in her chosen shroud, drape a flag embroidered with her name across her chest, and allow her loved ones to say their farewells. She had been looking forward to returning to this work, had expected it to be naturally fulfilling like building houses or delivering firewood, but she had forgotten about the habit of complete silence. Across from her, Etienne’s twin and polar opposite Sabine was delicately assembling a parcel of rose petals, peppermint leaves, and juniper berries, seeming unbothered by the constraining quiet.
They dressed Inez in her shroud and lifted her onto the steel rails before the furnace, folding her hands over her embroidered flag. Once the body was rendered to ash and fragments of bone, the remains would be gathered up into an urn and carried to her final resting place — none of which was Mal’s purview. After the floral bulb was placed into Inez's mouth and her hair was arranged over her shoulder, Mal turned away and left Sabine to handle the grieving family; xe was a skilled counsellor for the bereft, and nothing xe said ever sounded hollow or disingenuous.
She sat down on the bench in the lobby, feeling out-of-sorts as she tipped her face into her hands and inhaled deeply: she used to find the scent of rubbing alcohol and amaryllis comforting, but now she longed for the homemade balms that Kaia’s mother kept for chapped hands. More-so, she longed for the funerals she had grown accustomed to in Kawehno:ke, which typically stretched over several days of celebration and reflection. There were as many kinds of funeral as there were people, and no matter the faith, the mourning felt fuller. Muslim, Jewish, Christian, Buddhist, Animist — no matter the kind of last rites, she always left the graveyard feeling lighter, already moving past the grief rather than finding her way weeks or months later. In the city, the bodies were cremated and buried so quickly; she couldn’t help but feel shortchanged at the thought of her remains being treated that way, over and done with in three hours before everyone had to go back to work.
Her wrist had popped under her weight while sitting down, and now it was twinging painfully. She reached into her pocket for the worn-out brace given her when she had originally injured the joint last year, clumsily strapping it into place and firmly telling herself not to bother Sabine for help: undertakers were not naturally inclined to medicine, and xe was busy with more important things.
The outer door suddenly banged open, admitting a gust of acrid air and a man her age. He carried a bundled quilt in his arms, a pair of child-sized feet dangling from the end, and walked past her as though in a trance. She followed with a pit in her stomach as he shouldered his way into the empty chamber and tenderly laid the bundle on the table. He heaved deep, resigned breaths and crumpled against the heaviest of burdens with a soft, self-contained sob. She moved to her post as unobtrusively as she was able, peeling back the layers of quilt to reveal a thin-faced toddler. The poor thing’s lips were blue, and his skin was stained with splashes of contaminated water: he must have gotten into the bay while his parents’ backs were turned.
She quickly stepped back, dousing her hands in alcohol and reaching for the gloves on the shelf, along with a stiff cup-shaped mask to strap onto her face. The man had composed himself somewhat when she returned, back ramrod straight as he held onto the little boy’s hands, his knuckles white and shaking. “His name is Sequoia.” His voice was past grief and deep into resignation, as though he had never expected the boy to survive childhood in the first place. “My son.”
She scribbled down the name for whoever would embroider his flag. “We have to clean the blanket first, if it’s his shroud,” she told him gently. “It’ll be some time before he’s ready to be cremated — two hours, at least. Is there anyone else who would like to say goodbye to him?”
“His— his mother, and his aunts.”
“You should go and get them. We’ll have him all cleaned up by the time you get back, and you can all say your goodbyes together.”
He nodded, moving as though every step pained him as he placed a small parcel beside the boy’s head, and slowly floated from the room. The door swung shut behind him as she carefully unwrapped the little urn, no more than five inches in any dimension, tracing her fingers over the orange glaze tenderly dotted with little red fish, the familiar lullaby etched into the belly. Urns were a ubiquitous coming-of-age gift in Delany: she had been gifted her very own at age twelve, once she started to wander farther from home. Hers was green and yellow, aspirationally-sized given her adult height, and the base was etched with a message in looping cursive: Though we have lost our dearest love, we will not lose ourselves. She had carried it from the city to Kawehno:ke and back again, and she would carry it to Proxima too.
Sequoia must have been a very sickly child, if his parents had already commissioned his urn. She placed the tiny receptacle on the shelf for safe-keeping, ensuring that the lid was removed and set aside — once the lid was sealed over the ashes, it would not open again. She glanced over at the boy’s body periodically as she moved about the room, alternating between gathering her materials and pausing to fight back her rising panic: Gwenh’s death had nearly killed her, but Clover’s would finish the job.
The panic beat against her like crashing waves, and she braced herself on her knees and tried to breathe past the worry. Twenty breaths in the belly, twenty in the ribcage, twenty in the shoulders. Her fingers twisted painfully around the rag clutched in her hands, as she breathed in and out, starting the cycle over and over until she finally felt ready to face preparing the boy for his journey.
She wiped her eyes and lifted the rag to the child’s face. “I’m sorry we couldn’t protect you, Sequoia,” she said softly, her heart breaking for the little boy who hadn’t even lived. She took a deep breath and smoothed the rag over his hair. “What’s done is done, and your time here is over. We’re going to clean you up, tuck you in all nice and comfy in your favourite blanket before we send you off — you have nothing to be scared of.”