You’re standing behind me in the funeral home. Holographic. The funeral director
opens the yellow envelope and empties your jewelry onto his palm.
It’s silly. Mangled. Flattened in strange places. Your new ring, a chevron of diamonds
looks like something found in a trash dump after a bulldozer has rolled over it a few
times, and the pendant, a lapis lazuli heart, is broken in two, its gold frame returned to
an organic, blob shape. But the envelope has a smear, a stain. A stain, a smear of your
blood. “It’s blood,” I say, or “Is that blood?” or “It’s Marsha’s blood.” I don’t remember
exactly, but there was a smear of your blood on the envelope -- I got that right.
The director nodded, averted his eyes, and slipped it behind his back. He knew
he had fucked up a little. But I had seen your blood, the last gem I would see of you.