afterlife. by Amie McGraham

Even as I waited for Tammy, the ever-helpful and annoyingly chipper cremation services representative, to return with paperwork (even in death, it turns out, there are contracts to sign) in that generic room, decorated in a somber shade of gray and, jarringly, the stark white of perhaps, heaven, thumbing through the death product catalog, ominously titled “Afterlife,” and kindly left by the ever-resourceful Tammy, with her black nail polish and black pantsuit, who took her time, I might add, in procuring the “funeral goods contract,” vanishing for almost 20 minutes at which one might speculate may have been intentional, leaving the client alone with all the death products—a soft-sell approach if you will—and me with my back to the wall of sample urns ranging from a simple pewter to the very busy redneck edition depicting a 12-point buck, American flag, eagle and rifle against a camouflage background or those with airbrushed images of sunsets and palm trees (none of which appealed, hence my back-to-the wall position), even as I waited for Tammy’s return, I needed to capture this moment, to write it all down and when she came back with the contract and the cardboard box containing my mother—or, as they are called in crematory lingo, my loved one’s “cremains,”—I quickly shoved in my pocket the dozen or so “In the Event of My Death, Contact Direct Cremation” business cards I’d scribbled upon and, feeling maybe a little pressured into purchasing something beyond the plain white box of my mother’s ashes, pointed to the bracelet on the page in the Afterlife catalog I’d earmarked, when Tammy asked if I’d selected any memorial products, to which she replied, in an ever-respectful tone: “That’s the perfect choice; we’ll be happy insert a pinch of ashes in the charm.” 

Artist’s Statement

I never realized how large a role marketing plays in the death of a loved one until my mother’s recent passing. She had never wanted a funeral or even memorial service of any sort; I planned to scatter her ashes in the cove across the street from the island farmhouse of my childhood. When the time came to collect her remains at the crematorium/funeral home, the sheer volume of death accessories was overwhelming. Between tears and frustration, I scribbled this story on various scraps of paper and business cards while waiting for what seemed an eternity.

Amie McGraham grew up on an island in Maine where she summers as curator of family ghosts and memories. Her writing has appeared in anthologies and literary magazines including Brevity, Multiplicity, Maine Magazine and Wild Roof Journal. Her story "Your Roots Are Showing" was chosen by Intrepid Times as the winner of the 2022 Wrong Turns travel writing competition. 

Currently writing a novella-in-tweets, Amie also produces a weekly 100-word newsletter, "the micro mashup." Her flash blog, "This Demented Life" was featured by Alzheimer Authors and is followed internationally.