Agape

by Stephen S. Power

Horrific Scribes Extremity Rating:

For my grandmother Viv’s funeral feast, our family laid her out on the grass beside the lily pond. It was our favorite spot. She’d sit there every day to watch me swim, count how long I could stay underwater, and judge how far I leapt from the bank. That made the feast, my very first, easier, but only a bit.

Next, we sat in a circle around her, and my grandfather Al, Viv’s favorite, sent around our best clay bowl. It brimmed with the berries we’d picked in the hours since she’d died. Whoever had it told a story about Viv, ate a berry, and passed the bowl.

I told everyone how Viv thought I was a perch because I swam so well. “Look at these gills!” she’d say, tickling my neck. “Look at these fins!” pinching my fingers. “What a tail!” hugging my legs. Then she’d pick me up and say, “Pity you’re too tiny to eat,” and toss me back. Everyone laughed. My berry tasted sour, though, and stained my fingertips red.

Still, I wished for more because once they were gone, Al gave everyone a skewer and a bowl with smoldering charcoal while my father brought out our family’s best bladestone and knelt beside Viv.

As her oldest son, he had the honor of opening. My mother, as her oldest daughter, had the honor of removing. My oldest brother and sister, Trap and Em, had the honor of carving. I had the honor of watching. Which I didn’t want to do because, as the youngest, I’d also have the honor of her eyes. Which I didn’t want. Or her meat. Or any honor.

I wanted my MaNa back.

I bit my lip as Trap cut off her tongue, then Em divided it for all our grandmothers. “So they can speak to us with Viv’s wisdom,” my mother explained. I swallowed my tears as Trap cut out her heart, then Em divided it for our all our grandfathers “so they can love us as Viv did.” I nearly gagged as Trap removed her breasts, then Em divided them for all her sister-mothers “so they can help us feed Viv’s children.”

How many times had I rested my head on those breasts when I was sad or lonely? How many heartbeats had I counted while falling asleep? How many times had she filled my hair with kisses and whispered, “You’re safe?” How could we cook her?

The day before, my grandmother had smelled like sunshine, lilies and pond. Now she smelled like any beast we’d scavenged. When her fat popped on the charcoal, my stomach churned. How could no one else’s? When his bowl flared and Al said, “There’s still fire in her!” how could everyone smile and smack their lips?

Trap scraped his knife along her bones, filling a wooden platter with meat, and Em spooned her blood into drinking bowls. While they passed them, my father-brothers told me to gorge myself so I’d become as strong as my grandmother. “We’ll never find a carcass as rich as Viv,” one said. I only took a sliver. My father-brothers looked away. So be it. I didn’t want anyone looking at me except my grandmother.

Then she did.

All of Trap’s jostling made her head flop to one side, green eyes wide as if surprised. Viv loved surprises. A perch jumping. Me jumping on her. Her finding the lilies I’d leave on her pallet. She’d say, “Uh oh!” then giggle so hard she’d sneeze. How could I chew such wonderful eyes?

My father crawled over, rubbed my back, and asked if I wanted help cooking my meat. I shook my head. He skewered my sliver anyway. When I sobbed, he asked if I needed a little walk. But I couldn’t break the circle. Because then I couldn’t return. I took the skewer and turned Viv over my charcoal.

When it sizzled, my father said, “Take a bite.”

I looked at my grandmother. Her eyes had half-closed. She looked sympathetic.

“She’d want you to,” he said. “For the family.”

Our family waited.

I nibbled. It wasn’t too bad.

“Not too bad?” I heard Viv say.

“No,” I thought. “You’re delicious, MaNa.”

“I should think so.”

When I swallowed, my father kissed my forehead, and everyone cheered. Viv’s jaw drooped as if she cheered, too.

What about her eyes, though? I ate more meat. Maybe I could say I was full.

Finally, Trap turned our grandmother’s face up. He kissed her forehead and with two flicks removed her eyes. Em held out the berry bowl to accept them then passed it to me.

I couldn’t look. I could barely keep her meat down.

My mother said, “We give you her eyes because you are the farthest from the future and need the most guidance. She will show you the way.”

“She will show you the way,” my family said, “and you will show us.”

They stared at me.

I stared at the pond. A perch jumped. Ripples fled and settled.

My mother coughed. She had my grandmother’s cough, the one that made frogs and me jump. I looked into the bowl.

MaNa’s eyes had sunk in water, leaving a glittering pond with two tiny lily pads. It was beautiful. I drank. It was salty. Like tears.

I still taste her, a hundred seasons later, whenever I cry.

Once we were stuffed, our family danced and sang until we collapsed, some to sleep, most to make love. Three days of feasting joined Viv to us forever. Then we wove her hair into remembrances and made tools from her bones.

My favorite part of the funeral, though, was slipping away to swim. The pond was as warm as Viv’s embrace, and diving deep I felt surrounded by her, especially when I heard her warn me, “After eating me, little perch, you shouldn’t go swimming so soon. You might get a cramp.”