1

My sister found our parakeet, Hercules IV, dead on his back in his cage that hung near the telephone. Hercules, one in a series of less-than-robust birds purchased from the pet store at the strip mall, loved chattering whenever anyone was on a call. He'd learned to imitate the phone ringing, which caused frustration when one of us raced from the bathroom to answer it, or rather him.

My sister was eight years old and had not yet chosen a future occupation. Two years older, I was undecided myself. Our grandfather had died a few months earlier, and we'd attended the funeral. Possibly inspired by that experience, she announced her intention to bury Hercules. Our mother had no objection, having previously deposited Hercules I, II, & III in our kitchen garbage can.

My sister found a shoebox, wrapped Hercules in a sock that had lost its mate, picked wildflowers, and glued two popsicle sticks together to form a cross after sacrificially eating a frozen treat that stained her tongue blue. A few kids from the neighborhood attended the ceremony, which included a speech by my sister about Hercules' brief though wonderful life, a moment of silence, and a rendition of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," with almost everyone chiming in. There was a scuffle over who would fill in the hole after she placed the box in the bottom which was settled after someone suggested everyone throw in a handful of dirt simultaneously.


2

By the time our brother's guinea pig, Abagail, died a few months later, my sister had become an experienced on-demand funeral director. Her skills filled a previously unknown need in our suburban neighborhood. Random kids would show up at our back door after school, or on Saturday mornings with their little hands cradling deceased fish, parakeets, and hamsters.

Abagail had been a family favorite, but she was already old in rodent years when my brother received her from a family friend, and though she seemed to enjoy their nightly touch football games, her heart may have been strained. Abagail's funeral was a twilight family-only service with tears from everyone, but our brother cried the hardest, possibly from guilt.


3

My sister's third funeral was mine. After a sleepless Christmas night, suffering from abdominal pain, I was rushed to the ER and admitted with acute appendicitis. I had to stay in the children's ward for a week after the operation that day, and my only visitors were my parents. My sister didn't believe my parents' assurances that I was perfectly fine. She was convinced I was dead.

She decided to bury me in absentia. Toward this aim, she collected my gold-plated locket, my Barbie, my ceramic horse with its macrame bridle, my ballet shoes and tights, and a picture of our Uncle Bill, my godfather, sitting on a camel in Cairo. It was a solemn affair, attended by a large group of kids from the neighborhood. I was told that a number of Christmas carols were sung, as the words were familiar and close to mind. My sister dug a shallow hole with much trouble as the ground was frozen. My possessions were interred. A cross would be added after the spring thaw.

A few days later, to her amazement and possible disappointment, I came home. She quickly removed her things from my side of the bedroom and told me about my beautiful funeral. After I felt better, she helped me unbury my stuff. It was then that she stopped holding funerals. One occupation had been eliminated, but for her, and for me too, of course, there were endless possibilities ahead.


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