“Hello. My name is Mrs. Krementz, and I am your obituarist,” said an old sinister lady as she walked to my home. I have been on my bed the entire morning waiting to see what kind of person would come and knock at my door. As it turns out, they sent someone who is as old as me except for her attire, her precision of words, and her sharp, confident look.
‘Good God, why am I impressed with my obituarist?!’ I thought. But I kept walking my guest to my living room. She is awfully quiet. And her face couldn’t say anything I might configure.
“You must…”I cleared my throat halfway. I haven’t said a word since this morning and my throat was half closed. She only glanced at me and she opened her bag. I cleared my throat again and asked if she was thirsty.
“Water is fine,” she said.
“So, you are an obituarist. How does it really work? You know…do you find your job a little sad?” I do not know what I am talking about. I am just trying to make a conversation because I am terrified of the questions she might be asking me next. I don’t know why I am terrified though.
“It is okay. I don’t find it sad. I just write it.” Mrs. Krementz replied.
I find myself rolling my eyes in front of my water container. Then I get back to the room with a handful of glasses and snacks.
“I have to know your full name for the form. What is your last name, Ms. Jane?”
“Oh, don’t have one. I only use my first name. Just Jane. Not a miss, too.”
I thought she gave me an odd gaze for a minute. Perhaps, I am imagining it. She is filling out her forms. I can see her excellent penmanship from my chair. To keep myself from odd imaginations and a weird urge to ask about her life I kept cracking my snacks. She seems unbothered.
She kept filling out the forms while asking about my major identifiers as a person who occupies a space on this planet. I could hear myself sigh, but I answered her questions accordingly.
“So, Ms….ehmm…Jane. What sort of tales would you like us to tell when the inevitable finally happens?”, asked she. Her eyes are devoid of emotion or any information I can speculate from.
“Do you think death is the uncanny fate to human beings?”, I asked.
“No, I think death is a gift to the human population. I think it is a gift to life. Imagine if we were going to live infinitely?!” She said it at once. For a moment, I felt like she did not intend to say anything. But I love this game. I wanted to push her to the edge to tell me how her life is. I wanted to hear what people say to their obituarists.
“So, Jane…”.
“Yes.”
“I would rather not repeat myself. Tell me what you want people to read about after you die.” She sounded frustrated.
“I don’t know. I was wondering if you could tell me what other people usually say.” I said bleakly.
“They usually confess to me. Even though I don’t ask them anything. They prattle about what they regret in life. Or the places they haven’t visited. They usually talk about their hopes and dreams in life, you know.” She drifted off into her memory.
“Have you ever wondered what you would say if somebody were holding a gun to your head?” I asked.
“I suppose not.” She answered calmly. “I think about death a lot more awful than I would like to admit. It is my job after all. But I never thought I would die suddenly with a bullet. I guess the immediacy and the nearness of death might illicit a natural panic reaction for a second. Just for a minute. Not a while longer than that.”
The room went quiet after that. She kept poking her notebook. I kept rocking on my chair wondering what she was thinking.
“I remember this guy,” she went on. “He called me to his house just like you did. And he started narrating his hopes and dreams, his biggest mistakes in life, all the chances he did not take in his life…and so on. He was truly miserable. And he went on and said the saddest part of it is I am not resolved yet. I still think I could make sense out of it, he said. For a moment, I pitied him. For another moment, I envied him. And then I asked him where he sought out his hopes from. He stared into my eyes and said hope is the only thing I got. Then, I told him that was what brought him down in the first place. I can hear his confusion growing strong. You have set your standards so high, even death or the terror of death cannot bring you down to the face of reality, I said to him.”
All of a sudden, she stopped talking. She sat up straight and asked, “So Jane, what would you say to the person who is holding a gun to your head?”
“I …I…” She gave me a ‘spit it out already’ look. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to confide in her. For a moment, I felt like she was my oldest friend. I suddenly got up from my chair and asked if she wanted more tea, or a wine perhaps. She nodded yes for the wine and I bought myself a few more seconds to answer my own questions.
When I got back to the room, I saw her waiting for my reply. And I wondered if she were a little bit agitated to hear what I would say. I smirked at myself for thinking I could impress this lady and went on pouring the wine.
“If a gun was pointed at my head,” I went on, “I want to be afraid and maybe beg a little. But I don’t suppose I would do that. I wouldn’t mind dying a year from now or today. You know…” I am looking at her while I am taking a sip. She does not seem impressed or bored. She was just unbothered.
“Do you mind listening to music?” I inquired to break the silence. She nodded yes. But she cleared her throat louder this time and said “Look Ms. Jane…can you just tell me what you want to say in your obituary?” She looked half-irritated, half-relieved.
“Yeah. I am sorry I just don’t know where to start or what to say. Do you have your own notes ready for your obituary? Or your epitaph?”
She, then, got up and started walking directly to the music collection. ‘Hmm..she is not irritated,’ I wondered. She seemed relaxed and at ease.
“I had so many things in mind. I wanted to sound ordinary at times. I wanted to sound exceptional as well. I wanted to absolve the poetic justice of life and death in myself. I even wondered if love could be the biggest force. And then I realized there is a middle ground for everything. I felt ashamed for the times I was foolish and stupid. I felt a little bit boastful for being smart. But it keeps…” she sighed deeply and went on “circling back into something I cannot sum up. It’s not just one thing. It is a little bit of everything and a whole lot of nothing. And it keeps folding me into parts and pieces,” she suddenly stopped talking. Yet, I felt all the words she uttered to my core.
“So,” she sat back on the couch “Jane, tell me.”
“I am not sure what I want to tell you, to be honest. Life keeps happening to me.” I said it more intensely than I would like. “I am not actively alive, you know… Life is passing me by while I am just there looking at it. I, sometimes, feel existential wonder. And the meaninglessness. And again the opportunities and the pragmatic parcel of it. It is sort of a kaleidoscope of all the things that do not fit together. Nor blend. So, I don’t suppose I have one thing or another thing. I just…”.
I abruptly stopped talking. She looked at me. I stared back at her. And we both knew I was not going to say anything further.
After a few months, a local magazine read an obituary entitled “The Paradox” written by Mrs. Krementz.
Unabridged Manuscripts 