Not the seven stages of grieving
Not how to clean up your belongings
And put away my sadness
Not even how to tell people that you’re gone and we’re all still here, other than your employer
I had to google a checklist for your death
On what paperwork to do
The forms to fill out
How to identify the body (without crying)
And get a “legal pronouncement of death”
I had to figure out how to access your last will and testament
And decipher if you belonged to a formal society that gave a shit or maybe paid me benefits
And what you would want us to do with the corporeality you molted
And if I put you in a cemetery how often I would be obligated to maintain your plot
Or maybe if I put you in an urn how to find one that wasn’t incredibly fucking ugly
And if I’d have to split your ashes with your cow of a sister, legally
And how to take down your Facebook page, or maybe memorialize it and leave it up
What to do with your bank accounts
And the debt you left behind. (Is it still owed? By me? Or does it die with you?)
How to access your life insurance policy
Why I need our marriage license when I go to the federal buildings
And how to end your AAA coverage
Unregister you from voting
Unregister your car
And register the fact that you are gone and I am here and even though your soul has moved on
I have so much shit to do for your body that is still here and is cold and is a burden, more than emotionally
I had to google a checklist for your death
And go through more than one page of results on that wretched site
To make sure I got it all
To make sure the government wouldn’t come after me for forgetting to do your taxes one last time
To make sure I did you the honor of letting you leave, legally
And that is so fucked up.
Sally Arizona, a poet since age eight, writes happy poetry for her loving boyfriend and Maine Coon, sad poetry for herself, and fun poetry for shits and giggles. Sometimes the writing takes over and a short story comes out! She explores themes of love, loss, and religion in everything she does.