Gloves
The death was a shock but not a surprise; and there
had been time to assemble some narrative defence. There
was little pain.
The newly-bereaved sat very still.
Those who had admired the deceased called by phone
but were not invited. Those who visited were not admitted.
A neighbour returned several ladders; and they leaned
across the front doorway.
The cat was sulky.
Alone, at its insistent request, the bereaved sat
beside remains and ruin, and stared without focus.
The deceased hadn't bothered putting its gloves on.
Its new gloves. Gloves lying on a cold pillow.
The bereaved put on the gloves. They fitted loosely
but could be pulled up every few minutes.
It shuffled to the wardrobe, removed an entire outfit
of the deceased, and dressed. The result was preposterous,
yet there was a similarity.
String pulled in the trousers at the waist and checked
the billowy shirt. Rubber bands held the sleeves in
rucks. It was little better; but the deceased had never
cared about sartorial appearance.
Why should the survivor care?
It rang friends and announced itself as the deceased.
We have died, it said. Come any time.
When they came, they asked, in their various ways,
what was meant by these actions. The responses evaded
the questions as the bereaved affected not to understand.
I am fine, it said. It's just that, my partner being
away, I need company. Then it began to cry, squealing
softly.
A psychiatrist called; and, after some minutes alone
with the survivor, declared it sane. The visitors stood
in the cramped kitchen, making occasional; shallow
remarks to each other; and to the person who was pretending
to be another, now deceased, who was now saying odder
things.
At last, the survivor leading, they entered the inner
darkened room, each carrying a knife.
The leader seemed to hesitate, seemed, for some moments,
to dream.
And then speech. I have changed my mind. We shall
devour the entire corpse. No one leaves until we finish.
Pull the clothes off the still one and start cutting.
Save all the bones.