Excerpt From Urning a Living
Karrianne Carter
I walked around the marble top island and opened the creaking cabinet door above the sink, pulling out a small glass. I grabbed a tray of ice from the freezer and dropped a couple dinosaur-shaped frozen cubes into the glass. Daddy bought the novelty tray when I was nine from the old man who lived next door to us in Pennsylvania. He was having a yard sale, so Daddy took me with him as he sifted through boxes of books that gave off a musty odor when you flipped the pages. I wandered up and down the few tables the old man had set up and when I found the dinosaur tray. The old man walked over to me and said it used to be his daughter’s but he didn’t have much use for it. At that time, I was obsessed with dinosaurs after discovering Land Before Time. I even tried asking Daddy if I could get one like Little Foot as a pet. I ran over to him by the books and begged him for ten minutes to buy it for me.
“Please Daddy! You know how much I love dinahsaurs,” I begged.
“Clara, you don’t need it. You don’t like ice cubes in your drinks.”
“So! I love it! Oh, please please pleaassee!”
The old man watched us banter back and forth for a little longer before telling Daddy he could have it for half price. I stuck out my lower lip and stared pleadingly up at him. He took a deep breath and sighed, pulling two crisp dollar bills from his pocket and handing it over to the old man, whose face crinkled as he winked at me and pocketed the money.
It was one of the few things I had willingly kept from my childhood. When my father died, my young mind decided that if I couldn’t remember him, then his absence in addition to my mother’s wouldn’t seem so obvious. After his funeral, I didn’t bother to change out of my black dress. I grabbed a trash bag from under the kitchen sink and ran up the stairs to my bedroom. Anything that reminded me of them had to go, and so it did - the neon yellow bear Daddy won from the county fair, the framed pictures on my desk of Momma and I on the Ferris wheel and down at the beach with just her head sticking out of the sand and me standing triumphantly behind her holding a bright blue shovel, the rainbow-colored crocheted blanket Momma would wrap tight around me when the lightning scared me.
When I was done, I went back downstairs covered in dust bunnies from crawling under my bed and told Grandmother to get rid of it.
“Are you sure-” she started to say, but was silenced by my defiant glare. She stared back at me for a moment, opened her mouth as if she was going to say something, but turned away nodding her head. That was the last time I saw the bag for years. When I was going through her belongings a few days after her funeral, I discovered the trash bag carefully placed amongst the cardboard boxes in her attic. Staring at the tray in my hands, I once again scolded myself for being so stupid then. Everyone was always so concerned with my calm demeanor following my transition from daughter to orphan. The psychiatrists and shrinks all questioned me and tried to make me recall memories of my parents, but I always refused. I’d sit with my arms folded across my chest and stare out the window at the kids playing in the playground across the street. I would tell them that Momma and Daddy always told me to look ahead, not at the past. I never let them know how much I just wanted to cocoon myself in the blanket as I cuddled the teddy bear, breathing in Momma’s flowery perfume that still clung to the yarn fibers.
“Please Daddy! You know how much I love dinahsaurs,” I begged.
“Clara, you don’t need it. You don’t like ice cubes in your drinks.”
“So! I love it! Oh, please please pleaassee!”
The old man watched us banter back and forth for a little longer before telling Daddy he could have it for half price. I stuck out my lower lip and stared pleadingly up at him. He took a deep breath and sighed, pulling two crisp dollar bills from his pocket and handing it over to the old man, whose face crinkled as he winked at me and pocketed the money.
It was one of the few things I had willingly kept from my childhood. When my father died, my young mind decided that if I couldn’t remember him, then his absence in addition to my mother’s wouldn’t seem so obvious. After his funeral, I didn’t bother to change out of my black dress. I grabbed a trash bag from under the kitchen sink and ran up the stairs to my bedroom. Anything that reminded me of them had to go, and so it did - the neon yellow bear Daddy won from the county fair, the framed pictures on my desk of Momma and I on the Ferris wheel and down at the beach with just her head sticking out of the sand and me standing triumphantly behind her holding a bright blue shovel, the rainbow-colored crocheted blanket Momma would wrap tight around me when the lightning scared me.
When I was done, I went back downstairs covered in dust bunnies from crawling under my bed and told Grandmother to get rid of it.
“Are you sure-” she started to say, but was silenced by my defiant glare. She stared back at me for a moment, opened her mouth as if she was going to say something, but turned away nodding her head. That was the last time I saw the bag for years. When I was going through her belongings a few days after her funeral, I discovered the trash bag carefully placed amongst the cardboard boxes in her attic. Staring at the tray in my hands, I once again scolded myself for being so stupid then. Everyone was always so concerned with my calm demeanor following my transition from daughter to orphan. The psychiatrists and shrinks all questioned me and tried to make me recall memories of my parents, but I always refused. I’d sit with my arms folded across my chest and stare out the window at the kids playing in the playground across the street. I would tell them that Momma and Daddy always told me to look ahead, not at the past. I never let them know how much I just wanted to cocoon myself in the blanket as I cuddled the teddy bear, breathing in Momma’s flowery perfume that still clung to the yarn fibers.