Father was the first to enter, ahead of us on his own gurney. It was a rather bare room with marble floors, blue-grey brick walls, and a high ceiling. In the center of the forward wall there was the machine, waiting like a mouth. Mother went to it directly and investigated its operation, starting with confusion and ending with defeated understanding.
Mother gave us a concerned look and beckoned for help moving our father. After we transferred him to the cremation tray, she took his hands and crossed them on his chest like a vampire. She was crying. I hugged my mother as she picked lint off of Father’s shirt, and her tears dripped to his sleeve. I didn’t want to release my grief then. I wanted to keep pretending. But then I saw Archie too, and I lost control. We all went about doing little things to clean up Father and straighten out his clothes. He was always a professional man who tried to look sharp every day–even weekends. I remember once going to a water park with him, and he wore that suit the whole time–I half expected him to jump into the pool still wearing it. But that was some years ago, and today he is dead.
Finally, my mother pushed the drawer back in with father in place. I wanted to pull that drawer right back open. I am sure she did too, but it was over. Her hand rested idly for a moment before she release it with a sigh. She dialed into the terminal again and we hear amazing mechanisms stirring behind the wall. We remained looking at the machine and I began to feel cold, despite the warmth radiating from the walls. Then, the door opened behind us automatically. The room was asking us to leave. We left the room, and were startled when the machine began to hum as the door sealed shit behind us with a soft hiss.
The hallway seemed longer on the way out, each step echoing with a haunting finality. As we reached the lobby, we were met by a tall man in a crisp white suit and a placid face.
An employee: “The process have been initiated. Your father’s essence is being incorporated into our system. Would you like to know what will become of him?” he asked, his voice gentle, yet rehearsed.
We exchanged uneasy glances, and mother nodded slightly. “Yes.”
He continued, “At Twilight Transitions, we believe in utilizing the remains for greater purpose. Your father’s ashes will be processed and divided into various projects that will contribute to society. A part of him will be designated as fertilizer, and will nourish local forests and gardens. Another portion will be compacted into bricks, which are used to construct homes all across our country. Very small portions are also taken for experimental works, such as efforts to create ink or ceramics.”
“I see.” Our mother said.
“In a sense, he will be everywhere,” the man said. “We believe this provides a way for your loved ones to remain an active part of the community, even in death. It’s a means to ensure their legacy lives on.”
The man handed my mother a small, ornate box. “A small token for you,” he said. Opening it, she found a crystal pendant with a soft glow. “It’s made with a portion of his ashes. A way to keep him close.”
It was a beautiful piece, but we hardly had time to admire it. With a smile, he ushered us to the exit and returned to other business as we left.
The air outside felt thick, the world a shade dimmer than when we’d entered.
Mom held the pendant between her fingers; the soft glow was stark against the paleness of her skin.
We stood in the parking lot, the vastness of the place amplifying our feelings of isolation. We looked around and noticed the massive parking lot was mostly empty. We reached the car, and Mom stopped to look at us, her eyes teary but resolute. She drew us into a tight embrace. Over her shoulder, I saw a cargo truck parked on the west side of the building, where a worker in a blue jumpsuit was loading crates. ▲
