THE FUNERAL PLANNER

Chapter One: Reflections of a Failed but Still Determined Entrepreneur

Chapter 1

The closet is dark all right.

Claustrophobic-dark. Suffocating-dark. And, well...casket-dark.

I plunge through racks of limp, hanging clothes, riffling for one particular outfit, wondering why all closets symbol­ize darkness.

Doesn't the very word itself—closet—connote a sense of obscurity, a feeling of entrapment, or a space for conceal­ment? And furthermore, why don't closets have automatic lights? Closets with instant lighting would completely do away with their negative connotations. Think about it.

If you grew up with closets that blasted light every time you opened them, you might have a completely different association. One related to openness, illumination and optimism. On that note I ponder, why can't caskets have power-generated lights inside so the dead don't have to feel so alone in the dark? Okay, so they're dead, they might not know the difference, but still...it might make their after­life adventure less intimidating if they could see, metaphor­ically speaking, where they were going. It's not such a far-fetched notion. I've heard stories of family members placing battery-powered cell phones inside the caskets of their loved ones. So why not internally-lit caskets for eter­nity?

Theories on darkness and light free fall in my mind as I stand solo in the narrow closet of my one-bedroom apart­ment in Los Angeles, unable to prepare for a task that I must prepare for: packing appropriate clothes to wear for a funeral in the dead of winter in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

I scan my phone's list of free apps looking for one that might give me clues on what to wear and where to get it but apps that start with the word fashion intimidate me and I quickly let the phone fall to the floor. 

I lift a wrinkled black linen skirt off a hanger and place it against my five-foot-three-inch frame. I stare at myself in the mirror. "Madison Banks, what are you doing? Linen in win­ter? Highly impractical." I lower the skirt and face myself in mismatched underwear and bra that have both seen better days. I'm still in great shape. Lissome and toned, with dark brown hair and eyes, and oh, yes...a brain that never stops.

The whole experience of packing is one big déjà vu. It was only one year ago to the day that my cousin, Smitty, passed away. And now on my dresser sit two yahrzeit candles; both purchased last night at a local grocery store.

You're probably wondering, what's a yahrzeit candle? Wax and wick minijars that represent a Jewish custom for hon­oring the dead. The immediate family of the deceased lights one Y-candle on the anniversary of a loved one's death and recites a prayer called kaddish. The candle burns for twenty-four hours in memory of the departed.

Granted, I am not a member of Smitty's immediate family, but Smitty left a mark on me, and though I'm not a prac­ticing religious Jew, I do have a great affinity for ritual.

Every day of every summer when I was a kid I went sail­ing on Clark Lake with my Uncle Sam. I'd sail the Sunfish to shore, place a daisy in the bow, and thank it out loud for bringing us safely home. Rituals are what give me a sense of stability. They're the only thing.

So when the one-year anniversary of Smitty's date of death faithfully appeared on my computer calendar, I bought a Y-candle for him. The reason I bought two candles? Well, one was for Smitty. One was an afterthought. I had never pur­chased a Yahrzeit candle before and was surprised to discover how incredibly inexpensive they are. I never expected to re­ceive another call with the same message of death: last year my cousin Smitty; this year my former classmate and friend, Tara Pintock. I couldn't help but admonish myself for buy­ing two candles. What if I hadn't? Would Tara still be alive? I knew it was a silly thought. But still...what if?