Fiction by Serena Burman
“Pilot to copilot, are we ready for takeoff?” Mom looks in the rearview mirror and back at me. I roll my eyes because I’m 16. She laughs, “It’ll be nice when you start liking me again.”
How did I almost miss it, austere letters on neon yellow plexiglass: AFFORDABLE CREMATION & BURIAL. I swerve into the lot. Inside, it’s 1978. I pause, my eyes adjusting to dim light. Faded shag carpet flatters the persimmon pedicure I got on the way here. Stuffing pokes out of the olive paisley couch. It smells like a mix of mothballs and barbecued pork.
“Hiya, how can I help?” The man who emerges behind the wood-paneled counter looks like the emu guy in Liberty Mutual ads. Hank, his tag says.
“I’m here to pick up my mom. Well, her remains.”
“You mean cre-mains. Common mistake. Sylvia?” I nod. He lifts a small cardboard box from behind the counter.
“Here you go. She’s a heavy one! Gotta be over five pounds.”
It looks like the box of spare batteries in my pantry. Timidly, I reach out. My hands drop a few inches with its weight. One of the flaps is untucked. What did I expect, an ornate urn? Shit, was I supposed to bring one? Mom would have thought of that—an old vase from Goodwill she’d decoupaged with gold leaf or something. She knew how to mark moments.
“Men usually weigh in around six or seven pounds, women, more like three or four. You get real good at guessing without a scale around here,” Hank chuckles.
I pull on the loose flap. Inside, a plastic bag stuffed with chunky gray powder. I hold it up.
“Is that amber?” Hank asks, pointing to my ring. The stone is loose in its silver setting. I constantly thumb it like a loose tooth. It’s nothing special, but Mom never took it off.
Hank leans in, says amber is really just resin. Tells me he used to collect jewelry. Launches into a soliloquy about his favorite precious stones. Through the wall, I imagine an ornate wood-fired oven, giant pizza peels on wheels for sliding corpses in without a hiccup. How do they gather ashes? How do they know these are Mom?
I could probably give him five minutes of water cooler talk. I want to go. I dig for my wallet and he takes the cue, asks to see my ID. I can’t think of a joke about stealing cremains. I pick a ballpoint pen from the cup, sign the papers and hurry out the door. What now.
I walk in circles around my red jetta. Open the passenger door, close it. Open it. Swipe an old sandwich wrapper to the floor and set the box against the black leather. Resist the urge to reach for the seatbelt.
Whenever we traveled, Mom brought a reed basket as her carry-on. While everyone around us ate bland airplane food, she’d unpack a full picnic: classic calico napkins, water crackers, brie. And mini apple pies she’d baked in a muffin tin expressly for the flight. Pielettes, she called them.
I yank a sweater from the backseat and slide the cream wool under the box. Across the parking lot, a splash of golden wildflowers. I gather a small bouquet. Tie it with an asphalt rubber band. Drape it over the box. I start the engine. Put the car in reverse.
She usually wouldn’t tell me where we were going until we were on the plane. As we checked bags, walked through metal detectors, cinched our lap belts tight, I’d beg to know. She’d just smile.
I’ll tell you once we’ve left the gate.
Serena Burman lives on a small island in the Pacific Northwest. Her recent work appears in The Audacity, Pithead Chapel and Invisible City. She received Honorable Mention for The Pen Parentis 2022-2023 Writing Fellowship for New Parents (in flash fiction) and was a Semifinalist for Ruminate’s 2021 VanderMey Nonfiction Prize.
