My Sacred Place

It's 4:07 am and pitch black around the asphalt drive behind the funeral home.  My SUV creeps slowly until I hit the brake and throw it in park.  My headlights beam straight for our red funeral parking only sign.  I begin to rub my tired eyes, wake up Alyssa.  I turn to the passenger seat and fumble through my purse to find my cell phone again.  Clicking over to my text messages so I could find the message from our answering service.  I scroll through looking for the death call information.  Okay let’s see here...name of deceased is Ralph Johnson, Ralph Johnson...Ralph Johnson.  One last glance to verify the next of kin, okay yes his name is Matthew Johnson.  I hop out of my vehicle and swing my purse over my shoulder.  I have the funeral home key locked into my right hand and briskly walk to the double glass door.  I don't like being alone behind the funeral home at night because it's dark and the surveillance lights never kick on.  I mutter under my breath, we should fix that, as I try to use muscle memory to place the key exactly where it belongs in the door.  I've done this a thousand times in the middle of the night; same routine as always.  Finally the key turns and I keep twisting until it stops then nudge the door and pull back so it opens freely.  I feel around the wall next to the door searching for the light switch and ah ha, the lights flash on brightly and I squint.  Some relief passes over me to make it inside and now see my surroundings.  I stand in the back entryway for only a moment then on to the second set of double doors.  Here I instantly pull the door open and hear the loud high pitch beeping sound from our alarm system.  I have only a minute to punch in my code on the keypad before the police will be notified of an intruder.  I don't waste any time to punch in 1-0-1-0.  It was an easy number to remember, which doesn't feel so secure, but I can remember a time I was overwhelmed with work and couldn't remember my code.  It reminded me of the days back in middle school when you’d make it to your locker only to realize you can't remember your combination.  Ugh I still have to check the file cabinet.  Walking through the foyer of the funeral home I feel at ease.  Even in the darkness I know where each piece of furniture rests.  I weave in-between two chairs and make it across the room again to flip on the demist set of lights.  I survey the empty room.  So quiet and peaceful.  This place was scary to most and yet to me, it is my safe haven.  From a young age, I was never intimidated to be alone here.  I lived above the funeral home when I was in college, mainly because my parents drove me crazy and it was an excuse to live on my own free will.  With the alarm system in tact, I really didn't get away with much.  I was checked on often to see what time I came rolling in by my alarm code.  Now I'm much older, somewhat wiser, but still entranced with this place that I can never really escape from.  I look at the green couch in the entry way and recall nights I laid across it because I was exhausted but we had a call going so it was easier to hang out here.  I thought back to when I asked my mom to meet me at the funeral home to talk a few months before I got married.  I told her I didn't think he was right for me and I poured my heart out.  We shared a 6 pack of beer and even though her heart was in the right place (she thought I was getting cold feet) I ended up going through with the marriage anyway, only to confirm what I knew to be true beforehand.  Life is funny sometimes.  We question ourselves and our own feelings as if someone on the outside knows us better.  Who knows you better than you?  I shook my head thinking back to it.  I glance over to the first set of chapel doors.  Everything is closed up now but many times I have swung open that door.  The worst was leading a family in to view their deceased son for the first time.  I remember his father collapsing right inside those set of doors.  I had to keep the door somewhat open as his legs flung in and out.  It caught me off guard because it was the first time in my career I had seen not only the emotional aspect of grief but the physical.  My initial reaction was to help him up but I stopped myself because I heard this voice say, Alyssa let him be.  For a moment in time he needed to lie on the floor.  For a moment in time he needed to let the reality of his son's untimely death sink in.  Part of my job I feel, is letting people go on the path they need to, in order to heal.  We live in a world where people say, "don't cry" or "it'll all be okay," but what if instead we acknowledged the broken and just let them be broken.  What if instead we let them settle into their darkness to embrace the pain, the hurt, the disbelief.  Death brings out vulnerability in everyone. We become fully exposed at our core.  I look back to the fireplace and think of all the nursing mothers or parents in general who sat there soothing their child during an overly long funeral service.  Then I look through the entryway where our two benches sit identically across from each other.  Many people who have sat and waited or sat and thought about their fears entering into the unknown.  I trace the door to my office and find familiarity within the small room that has housed many difficult conversations and even my son several times when he was sick and I needed to take him to work with me.  Every inch of this building I feel I know and even more so, it knows me.  Silly to say, but even the women's restroom knows my deepest heartache.  I remember back to December of 2015 locking myself in to be alone with my tears.  I cried so hard my body started to slump against a corner and I slid all the way down to the floor.  I felt completely out of control as I began hyperventilating and telling myself breathe Alyssa, just breathe.  I can't recall any other time in my life I was that upset.  Come to think about it, the same restroom witnessed the realization of the greatest joy in my life...my son.  I took a pregnancy test in that restroom and my life changed the moment I read pregnant.  I thought about all of the memories I have tied to this place.  It was here, I began dreaming about my future and what I someday hope to become.  It was here I felt lonely but it was also here I felt an indescribable sense of security.  It was this place I was served divorce papers and this place I ran to when I had no where to go but needed a place to live.  It was here I reflected on all of my life's choices and here I still ponder so much when I'm alone.  I begin walking towards "the old building," or the original funeral home.  I grab the hand rail and gently glide up the steps to the narrow hallway between our music room and what I call a formal dining room.  The lights weren’t on but I don't need them to picture the stained glass ceiling above me or the original woodwork every person who passes through compliments as extraordinary.  I continue walking until I stand in the middle of the family room right underneath the large and ornate chandelier.  It was in this room I had my bridal shower and my baby shower.  I look by the front door and remember when my dad told me how back in the day, when guests arrived for a funeral they would throw their lit cigarette on the ground as they entered the room and stomped on it.  It's odd to imagine a pile of cigarettes just a few feet away from where funerals used to be held.  I look over at the painting of Jesus that hangs above the fireplace in the old chapel.  I wonder how long it has been there but figure as long as everything else surrounding me.  I rotate again to face the large staircase that leads upstairs.  I can barely make out the steps but picture in my mind the beautiful spindles that tier up the whole stairwell.  Behind the staircase was yet another stained glass mural I love.  I often have forgotten its existence when taking families upstairs to make funeral arrangements until the pause that always occurred when people would stand in awe as we rounded the corner.  I make my way down the steps towards the basement; where all of my secrets are kept.  I flip on the lights at the bottom of the stairs and veer over to the door labeled “no admittance.”  I chuckle to myself as I flip the lights on in the prep room, remembering when I was chastised by my dad for forgetting to shut them off after a day’s work and he said, “This isn’t motel 6, we don’t leave the light on.”  I have to agree, I don’t believe our “guests” mind.  The prep room is empty and bare for now, but not long.  The fluorescent lights above me flicker and hum loudly as I grab two white sheets and a handful of gloves to stuff into my pockets.  For anyone else, this room could be an image from a horror movie but the pale cream walls and tarnished blue tiles don't bother me; neither do the two stainless steel tables adjacent from each other.  I'm not quite sure how many bodies I have embalmed on those tables, I have lost count over the years.  Possibly a few hundred but there are only certain cases I recall vividly.  The first embalming I ever witnessed seems like an eternity ago.  It's just strange to me to think of embalming as normal day to day life but it is.  I work in here for many hours at a time and all the while, think about what I'm going to have for lunch or if I'll be home in time to tuck my son in to bed.  There's a distinct smell that comes with working in the prep room.  One I can never place my finger on but a mixture of potent formaldehyde ridden chemicals and death I suppose.  I scrub my hands as much as possible after taking off my sweaty latex gloves but it all lingers and I never feel clean until I shower at home.  Even when the smell subsides, the images still remain.  I look around and feel a sense of calm, alone and here, of all places.  Maybe it's comforting to know I've faced what most fear or maybe it's just because in here, I feel the most purpose.  I flip off the lights and wander again through the darkness; until we meet again.