from One Last Chance to Live
I want to quickly write down the dream I just had. I was in a closed casket inside that dark, perfumy parlor in Ortiz's Funeral Home. Then I was floating on the ceiling watching the scene. I was surprised and disappointed that the small room was not even half-full. I'd been to funerals for dead kids where crowds spilled over onto the street. In the front row sat Alma and her mother together with Noah. Behind them was my father sitting uncomfortably next to Harrison, my mother's boyfriend. Mr. Cortazar was there next to our school librarian, Mrs. Longoria, and next to them sat Ruth from my school, wearing a silky black dress and a necklace of tiny white pearls with matching earrings.
The rest of the rows were sparsely occupied with kids from school and people from the fish market. The casket was the same one Mr. Ortiz used for Rosario. The same casket he always uses when the bodies are destined for incineration. Who can afford to be buried? No one I know and none of the families of the dozen dead kids who've used the casket. Sometimes the casket is open, like for Rosario's funeral, and sometimes it's closed, like when a gang member is shot in the face. In front of the casket was a red velvet kneeler and next to that a blown-up image of my yearbook picture. I hated that picture. It was taken the day after my wisdom teeth were pulled out, and I look like I'm chewing a huge wad of gum.
I searched to see if anyone was crying, but everyone seemed calm and even a little bored. The only evidence of grief I could find was Alma blowing her nose with a pink tissue, Noah's red eyes, and Ruth's lowered head. Then I noticed for the first time two empty chairs to the right of the casket. In the funerals I've attended, empty chairs were placed for the parents or siblings of the deceased who have previously departed from this world. Filled with sudden terror, I began looking for my mother and Javier. They weren't there. The two chairs were for them. Then things got dark, and I realized I was inside the coffin. I was unbearably sad because the two empty chairs in the front row meant my mother and Javier had already died.
That's when I felt someone lying next to me in the coffin. I smelled coconut shampoo and knew it was Rosario. She was there to console me. For the loss of my mother and Javier. For my own death. For hers. I wanted to embrace her, but I couldn't turn. The coffin was too tight for two bodies. Rosario rose above me. Her whole being was made of a rose-colored light that was now dimming. She moved her hand in such a way that I could not tell whether she was asking me to follow her or waving goodbye. Then, just before she disappeared, she said something to me that I understood in the dream but could not remember when I woke up. What, Rosario? What did you say to me?