It was just three quick days after his death that our father’s cremation appointment had us driving across town. He rode in the trunk. His body was all wrapped up in linen, just his shoes sticking out one end because they were so hard to contain.
He died suddenly. “Something wrong with his guts,” they said in a diagnosis five days ago. His illness took over in a week, and soon enough he was more illness than anything else. It started with intense sweating that gave way to dehydration. Then came the swollen throat and stomach pain and soon enough he was stone cold dead, laying in his old Ikea bed. My brother pulled the blanket over his dull, wide eyed stare and then went off to tell mom.
Our drive took us to one of the newest buildings in the city, the great death processing vending machine — or “Twilight Transitions” as they are more commonly known. The building was not apparently a machine, but instead built up with traditional architecture and romantic stone detailing all covering up it’s strange inside.
We parked in the massive parking lot to the east of the facility and piled out of the car — Mom, Arnie, me, and the linen wrapped body of our relative who we all hoisted up together, mother at the midsection and us at the ends.
We walked for some time like this, stopping to find new grips, or to rest dad on our knees. To our relief, a worker came running toward us from the tower rolling a cart along with her. “Excuse me,” she said shyly, “you can put them here.” She gestured to her cart, and we heaved dad up onto it with a thud.
The ground was very smooth, recently paved. It was easy to roll dad along to the entrance. Though when we arrived, the Twilight worker thanked us and walked off quickly, leaving us alone. We stood in a monochrome hall with marble floors and concrete walls, with architecture that guided the visitors. In a confused, hesitated walk we went deeper into the facility feeling like intruders, mom pushing dad all the way. That’s when Arnie noticed the tag that had been placed on dad’s shoe — certainly by the worker. On it was the number six.
We came upon a long hall with a series of grey-blue doors on one side, probably about two dozen of them. After noticing the doors were numbered, and we were just by room one, we continued on toward room six as it seemed logical enough. Down the hall, the sound of a door opening followed by a metallic clatter caught our attention just as we began walking — it was a man exiting a room further along. He looked on at us for a moment and then rushed off like a fugitive. We quickly forgot him and went on to the door labeled “Six” where our mother turned the knob and pulled the door open. There was nothing but darkness, until a florescent light fluttered on and illuminated that strange room that still torments my mind.
Father was the first to enter, ahead of us on his gurney. It was a rather bare room with marble floors, blue-grey brick walls, and a high ceiling. In the center of the forward wall there was the machine, waiting like a mouth. Mother went to it directly and investigated its operation, starting with confusion and ending with defeated understanding.
Mother gave us a concerned look and beckoned for help moving our father. After we transferred him to the cremation tray, she took his hands and crossed them on his chest like a vampire. She was crying. I hugged my mother as she picked lint off of father’s shirt, and her tears dripped to his sleeve. I didn’t want to release my grief then. I wanted to keep pretending. But then I saw Archie crying too, and I lost control. We all went about doing little things to clean up father and straighten out his clothes. He was always a professional man who tried to look sharp every day. Even weekends. I remember once going to a water park with him, and he wore that suit the whole time—I half expected him to jump into the pool still wearing it. But that was some years ago, and today he is dead.
Finally, my mother pushed the drawer back in with father in place. I wanted to pull that drawer right back open. I am sure she did too, but it was over. Her hand rested on the handle idly for a moment before she released it with a sigh. She dialed into the terminal again and we heard amazing mechanisms stirring behind the wall. We remained looking at the machine like it were a painting or a television. I began to feel cold, despite the warmth radiating from the walls. Then, the door opened behind us automatically. The room was asking us to leave. We left the room, and were startled when the machine began to hum as the door sealed shut behind us with a soft hiss.
The hallway seemed longer on the way out, each step echoing with a haunting finality.
As we reached the lobby, we were met by a tall man in a crisp white suit and a placid face. An employee: “The process has been initiated. Your father’s essence is being incorporated into our system. Would you like to know what will become of him?” he asked, his voice gentle, yet rehearsed.
We exchanged uneasy glances, and mother nodded slightly. "Yes."
He continued, "At Twilight Transitions, we believe in utilizing the remains for a greater purpose. Your father's ashes will be processed and divided into various projects that contribute to society. A part of him will be designated as fertilizer, and will nourish local forests and gardens. Another portion will be compacted into bricks, which are used to construct homes all across our county. Very small portions are also taken for experimental works, such as efforts to create ink or ceramics."
“I see.” Our mother said.
"In a sense, he will be everywhere," the man said. "We believe this provides a way for your loved ones to remain an active part of the community, even in death. It's a means to ensure their legacy lives on."
The man handed my mother a small, ornate box. "A small token for you," he said. Opening it, she found a crystal pendant with a soft glow. "It's made with a portion of his ashes. A way to keep him close."
It was a beautiful piece, but we hardly had time to admire it. With a smile, he ushered us to the exit and returned to other business as we left.
The air outside felt thick, the world a shade dimmer than when we'd entered.
Mom held the pendant between her fingers, the soft glow was stark against the paleness of her skin.
We stood in the parking lot, the vastness of the place amplifying our feelings of isolation. We looked around and noticed the massive parking lot was mostly empty. We reached the car, and Mom stopped to look at us, her eyes teary but resolute. She drew us into a tight embrace.
Over her shoulder, I saw a cargo truck parked on the west side of the building, where a worker in a blue jumpsuit was loading crates.
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