Funeral Rites of the Unlived

Funeral Rites for the Unlived

My title is Architect of Death. My position is revered. Although it is no longer religious, centuries ago we were considered holy. Now our careers are as secular as anything in a modern society. Still, my job takes aptitude to get right, not to mention extensive training. I am not involved in killing, or even the Death itself. I like my job. I’ve heard our civilization puts more emphasis on Death than most, but I prefer the care we place on funeral observances. I believe it vital, and it connects me to my community.

“I didn’t know if I should bring him to you. He was assigned to me, since I’m new, but the names matched. And then the directive only specified that it be you.” My apprentice is so young I cannot believe anyone could be. He is nervous, and eager to please.

Our rituals of Death may seem strikingly individualist to outsiders. This is a misunderstanding. Any culture that celebrates Death, grieves together, is inherently collectivist. The personalization of that final rite is a comfort while we live, but in actuality it is for the community. It’s not for the Dead. It’s really for those who knew them.

“That’s quite alright.” I keep my composure as I read the name. I have not seen the name in decades.

Most outline ideas of what they want in wills or directives. My job is execution (but not executioner). I may make changes if I feel the chosen ritual isn’t exactly aligned to the Dead. I’m particularly proud of my work with a butcher who wanted to be covered in coins, the typical rite of a businessman or banker. He was known for developing a more painless, humane means of slaughter. So I swaddled his body in fleece from a local farm to reflect his softness. I enjoy the latitude in creativity I am allowed.

I have not seen the man in decades.

Many choose rites associated with vocations. Teachers and writers opt to be covered in chosen words, sometimes entire novels. I once painstakingly painted formulas and molecules on a chemist. Artists often want colors. Doctors normally donate to medicine. Leaders, politicians, firebrands prefer cremation. We usually reserve the process of composting into a tree for those who dedicated their lives to nature. It is an expensive and arduous process, and this is a public service, after all.

The young man gestures to the body. I cannot see it. I know it is laid on a hand carved dais behind the heavy black curtain drawn around it.

Most have lives well lived once they arrive, but it is my honor to serve the young as well. Children typically dress in pajamas and are rested in a bed. One boy loved playing sports in his wheelchair team, so I integrated the hardware of his chair into his coffin. I buried a teenage girl who knew she was dying in her favorite glade in the forest, per her request. In these cases, I am comforted that the rites never reflect the means of Death itself. I don’t deal in violence and suffering, but try to ameliorate it.

“Are you related? Sorry, were you?”

Some people leave it up to the architect. So great is their trust because they know us. Our encashments are small – a town, a neighborhood, a block. I will allow my architect to decide. We do not all do so. My mentor’s remains were shot out of a canon. That would be a bit flashy for me.

“Yes. I knew him.”

The origins of our rituals are allegedly ancient. No one eats flesh, if they ever really did originally. Often, I sew lines into the skins of nurturers and carer to signify their threads of connection to others. Apparently, lovers would give their left hands to the Dead. People only have so many hands and feel they’ll use them, so plaster casts are more popular. I whittle the figurines of beloved pets myself. I am not sure it matters how old the traditions are as long as they matter to the Dead lying before me.

“I’m sorry. Were you close?”

All of this brings me to the Dead lying before me. Father, I am at a loss. Never in my twenty years have I encountered a life so unlived. No one knew you well. Ironically, I may come closest, although my memories of my childhood are not fond. I had not seen you in years before your Death. Your sole request was to finally end with me.

“No.”

Frequently, if we did not know someone well, we offer them to scavengers. That doesn’t seem right here. You were neither teacher nor carer. You did not love your managerial profession. You had neither lover nor pet. I thought of passing you to a colleague, but it should be me. What am I to do?

The apprentice shifts his weight. “That will be all.” I mean to be kinder. The shock takes my breath away, only leaving curtness. Well. He couldn’t have known.

I will give you a better Death than the life you gave me. You are my humanity, so I combine the rituals. Paint you in colors you did not express. Sew my love and sorrow and indifference into arms that did not embrace me. Clad you in pajamas. Put you to sea.

I track my own hand as I open the curtain. It is older than I expect it to be, with visible veins and uneven lines. I cannot imagine how you look. I have never been able to imagine how you age without me. If I am being honest, I have given you very little thought. I have not dreaded this moment, for I did not think to invent it.

In Death, I dress you for the life you should have lived, not the one you wasted. I can give you that. I am ferryman, not arbiter. I will try to give you peace to leave this life you hated. The rites are not for the Dead, ultimately. I have designed yours for me.