In Siri’s line of work, the most important aspect of her outfit is a comfy pair of shoes. She stands while fixing up the bodies, she stands while meeting their families, she stands in the back of the parlor during every service. Each day is steeped in the juxtaposition of her toil and her clients’ eternal rest.
Siri is as pale as a corpse, and her entire wardrobe is somber black—never will you see her in an ashy gray or a respectful navy blue. Despite her pallor—or perhaps because of it—Siri has mastered the art of breathing life into the dead. With her brushes and creams and powders, she smears the blood back into their cheeks and smooths away the wrinkles that betray the pain and fear her clients felt in their last moments. She transforms lifelessness into peaceful slumber.
We came *so close* to winning trivia last night. But since it was my last night there, we simply named our team "Becky's Last Trivia So Give Us Shots." It worked.
If you're in Chicago, you should see my sister's band Bittersweet Drive play The Original Mother's tonight. Folky goodness.