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Loren said, "Of course its heavy, it's my mother-in-law." The Neptune Society had fucked up and sent it to me, against the instruction and payment to store her until I figured out what to do with her. Interring her next to my father was prohibitively expensive, as he was buried cheek to jowl with some army buddies, and would have to be moved to a new spot along with Carmen. That was her name, overtime pay Carmen. I couldn't figure out what to do with her. I was torn overtime pay between chucking her out of a moving car and fevered grandiose gestures of memorial storage. The only thing I knew for sure was she didn't want to be scattered into the ocean, because she told me so several times over a course of 30 years. She left no specific instructions, though, so I put her on a shelf beneath the shrine I used to meditate. Instead of insight meditation, I did this: Breathe in: my mother sitting at her dressing table, telling me the stories of her family, chatting, turning, and wiping a smudge from my face with a Kleenex dampened by her spit.
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