Route 7 Review - Page 119

Do You Remember? By Christina Fulton On the night before the anniversary of my father’s death I asked my future husband, “Do you remember that God-awful suit we buried him?” He put down his magazine and joined me in my reverse position at the foot of the bed. I was having a starring contest with the ceiling fan and snuggling with his feet, until I decided to disrupt our beautiful yin-yang pose with this sudden burst of mental diarrhea. “I thought we buried him in one of his work sweatshirts and jeans. You know, it was supposed to be a symbol for him being a working man to the end,” he said, letting his forehead lean up against mine. “No, that’s what my mom wanted to bury him in, but my aunt wasn’t having it. She went out and got him that bright red suit. Remember, I told you my father looked like an old pimp in that black and silver Cadillac looking casket.” “Now, I remember you picking out that flashy casket, but I still don’t recall the suit,” he said, brushing a strand of hair out of my face. “It looked like the hot-rod of all caskets. I thought he would like it. But you seriously don’t remember the suit?” “Nope,” he said, snuggling me into his chest. I started to cry a little at the thought of my father’s tawdry exit. The next day he took me out to Denny’s and I asked, “Do you remember when it flurried on our way to the funeral home? It was so strange. Especially, since it had been so unseasonably warm the week before. It was your first time seeing snow,” I said, cutting into a chocolate chip pancake. “Nope,” he said, wiping syrup from my nose. This was starting to get a little bizarre. “The snowflakes were a strange mixture of melancholy and madness,” I whispered to my soda. “Who talks like that?” He asked, pushing his hamburger pickle onto my plate. “Your future wife,” I smiled. We had been in our new home for a year and my future husband had been saving up for a ring he thought I deserved. I would have taken any ring but he insisted. I think it was because my inheritance bought the house, and he wanted to give me something to prove that he was capable of providing for me. I knew enough about gender theory from graduate school to know that this was both ridiculous and unnecessary, but the pretty pretty princess that still lingered in my X chromosomes was all giddy with the thought of an old-fashion objectification of the female nation type ceremony. After all, I would get to wear a puffy dress. On the way home, I was still stunned by his lack of memories about perhaps the most disturbing week of my life. “Do you remember my aunt turning to me in the church and asking why the priest kept bringing up all those statistics about suicide?” “Nope,” he said, turning the radio to my favorite station. “What do you mean? I turned to her and said, ‘Now, it has been a few years since I have been inside of a church, but I do recall Catholicism having a long history of not being too particularly fond of suicide.’” “You didn’t say that. That’s what you wanted to say, and you told me that later back at the hotel,” he laughed. “You remember that but not the suit?” “What can I say? I have a notoriously cheesy memory.” “Cheesy?” “Full of holes,” he said, turning down our street. “Ah, Swiss, your favorite,” I said, with a smile. My father always told me that all men have a highly discriminatory memory and selective hearing. It was what kept them sane during the onslaught of female chitchat. However, I wasn’t too keen on lumping my future husband into the