I have morbid thoughts. I blame it on my parents. I don’t mean thoughts of self-harm. Even in my darkest days, I have loved and cherished this life and the promise of the suns that will come out on all the tomorrows, bet your bottom dollar. I mean, quite literally, that I am fascinated by morbid things. My husband tells me, regularly, that I should have been a veterinarian. He has learned that I am praise motivated and that complimenting me on intellect will get you twice as many homemade sugar cookies as telling me I’m cute. Smart feller. And, sure, I do love animals. However, I think I’d have made a top notch medical examiner. See, I’m not much of a people person. I like working autonomously. And, I love a good mystery. Nothing piques my interest like the idea of speaking for someone who has a story to tell, maybe the most crucial story, but no ability to tell us. What happened? Who happened? What can we learn from you, dear departed one? Plus, I’m not bothered by smells that much. I’ve always been fascinated by the mortuary industry, too. Remember that HBO show in the early oughts, Six Feet Under, the one about the family in the big Victorian where they lived upstairs and held the funerals downstairs, did the readying in the basement? We all have dreams.
I was praised for curiosity as a child. My father was a big proponent for critical thinking. I’d say something random, like wondering aloud what would happen to the lifeless opossum we saw in the ditch on our way home. He’d guide me through the process. I can still hear him.
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