Scene
Int: A funeral home.  Lots of people standing around, politely, awkwardly chit-chatting. The groups are in constant flux, shifting from one area to another.

Strange day.  One of our neighbors passed away, after a long fight with multiple health issues brought on by a stroke several years ago.  His last few months sound nightmarish.  In between the canned exchanges, and details of his last days, I can’t help but feel a little dirty.  When people ask, “What have you been up to?” I smile and dodge the question as artfully as possible.  You can’t really just blurt out “I’m making a zombie movie!” at a funeral.  Well, you can, but I won’t.

I’ve always thought fondly of the family.  You can’t not see the loss etched all over each of their faces, and can’t help but admire the fact that you know none of them will grieve until they can do it privately.  There won’t be any crying here.  Maybe a fist fight, but no crying.   That’s just the kind of people they are.  For now, it’s all smiles, and handshakes and hugs and platitudes.  Cindy leans close and confesses, “I can’t wait until all these people leave.”  Her eyes are glassy, but she sucks it up and greets the next group.  It’s hard to watch.

It strikes me that funeral homes are strange places.  The walls, carpet, and upholstery are all conspicuously designed to not draw attention to themselves.  Convienently there, but not, just like a lot of the people in the room. They want to make sure your focus is right there… dead center.  Yet, everyone chats like there’s nothing strange about any of this, and nobody actually talks about it like it’s real.

There is an elephant in the room.