Margarine
by Grzegorz Kwiatkowski
When my grandfather died in the 1990s, all the mourners gathered in the old post-German house in Orunia. The men from the funeral home took my grandfather’s body away. The next day we were in the same house, still deep in mourning and still going over the final moments of his life.
My uncle was called to the morgue for the formal inspection of the body before the funeral, a procedure in which someone has to check whether the dead man has been properly washed, dressed, and prepared for an open-casket ceremony. Unexpectedly, he suggested taking me with him. I was ten years old and must have looked bored.
The morgue, back then, was in the basement of the railway hospital. We were greeted by a jovial worker from the funeral home. He showed us different people, different bodies, and turned it into a kind of guessing game: was this him or not? We were supposed to point to the drawer he would open next.
It was a moment of joy, surprise, and a certain familiarity with death. There was nothing indecent or disrespectful about it. On the contrary, the man was like a cemetery florist who wanted to show us the finest and most beautiful wreaths.
Keep us breathing fire!
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