By Umi Agawa

“To be eaten by animals is the only option I want. Like the sky burial in Tibet,” I told the funeral service staff. The woman let out a deep sigh and shook her head again.

She fished out a pamphlet from the plastic holder, slid it across the waxy desk beside the identical one that she had showed me an hour ago, and circled the Services section with her red pen twice.

“Unfortunately, we are not in Tibet, Ms. Song. I apologize that our company can’t provide a more comprehensive list of services. Perhaps you can review this information with your family?”

I could almost hear my husband tease, “Why become animal food?” He’d laugh, loud enough our kitchen walls echoed. And I would retort, “We’re part of the food chain anyway. What’s wrong with filling others’ stomachs after we die?” Then he would elaborate on cannibalism, pulling out some far-fetched interpretation to annoy me.

But my husband died a few years ago. His body was cremated, and, as he had requested, I scattered his ashes under that scrawny pear tree in our backyard. Like our beloved cat Toby, he got peed on by his stupid Shepherd every morning and night.

I opened the umbrella and walked out into the rainy street.

~

Waking up to find myself naked in a bright room was not what I expected. Seconds ago, I was crossing the bridge on the way home.

The air choked with chemical odor. An impassive young woman stands next to me, drawing out some liquid from a small brown bottle with a large syringe. I wonder if she is a nurse, an intern maybe, but why isn’t she wearing a uniform?

I watch her open a makeup palette to check the colors. She lines the brushes out on a towel as do the professional cosmetic artists on TV.

Is she going to color my face? I hate things plastered on my skin. I didn’t even run a brush over my cheeks on my wedding day. But why does a nurse care to put makeup on me?

I look around. Then I spot my long white dress hanging on the wall. The regretful purchase I wore only once because I hated the scratchy fabric. I planned to get rid of it. Who brought it here? Is she going to make me wear that later? I object.

I am about to ask the woman where I am, but as she turns toward me, her badge catches my eye. It displays the logo of the funeral home I visited earlier.

What the hell is going on?

“Sue,” the woman speaks through the landline over my head, “embalming is ready. You can come in now.”

My heart skips as if being squeezed. My eyes grow wide.

“Jesus Christ!” the woman gasps, almost dropping the phone. “No, it’s just…Ms. Song…never mind. Can you please bring some wax for Ms.Song’s eyes on your way in?”

In the next ten minutes while the woman stares at me, wrapping herself with both arms, standing against the wall, I begin to recall the huge headlights charging toward me, the blare of a horn and screech of tires. And the bedsheet pulled over my face.

I sit up. “So I am dead?”

The poor woman falls to the floor.

I tell her I don’t mean to scare her, but I need to let her know that boxing me in a coffin is a terrible idea because I have claustrophobia. My favorite outfits are pajamas, especially the set I got for Christmas made of pure cotton, with bunnies dotted all over. And I prefer the natural color of my nails even though now they have turned bluish gray.

I leave.

Shuffling my feet, I head towards the hill I used to visit often, immersing myself into the darkness. I lie down on a flat rock, arms spread.

Soon the scavengers will find their way to my decaying smell. They will tear my flesh and organs, piece by piece, down to the bare bones.

Then the bone eaters will arrive, gnawing at the leftovers or carrying some home to feed their young. In the end, no fragments will remain.

Panting and rustling sounds behind the bushes grow louder. I close my eyes, ready for the wild to free me.