I don’t know who put it there, but she would have liked it.
The rest of the shrine – why is it that we make shrines to the dead? – is so staid. Pretty little clear glass holders with pretty little white candles, pretty white orchids (she hated orchids; said it was crazy that anyone would pay that much for flowers. she hated how some flowers are ‘second tier’ just because they don’t cost as much to produce. they should be priced based on how beautiful they are, she said, and daisies would win, picked free by little girls and bored teenagers) and pretty metallic autumn leaves. Pretty fake grass (the soccer field where she used to play?) and pretty silver crinkles, arranged just so (when nothing in her life was ever arranged, ever perfect).
But right in the centre, where it draws the eye of every mourner, someone has taken a candle and wrapped it in blue tissue paper. On its centre they’ve pasted a black cat, lined in gold pen. It’s fun without being gaudy, young without being immature. It’s the red streaks in her black hair (which her mother made her dye over as soon as she walked in the door), the lip ring she used to slide over painted purple lips (she claimed she didn’t want a hole in her face, but we all knew the fake jewellery was protection against her father’s wrath).
I light it first.
I don’t know why we make shrines to the dead. Maybe it comes from cultures that used to worship their ancestors instead of gods. Maybe once we used to believe that they weren’t just watching over us; that they were still dipping their toes in. Fixing here, nudging there, an active instead of passive observer. Nowadays it just feels strange – wrong. I can’t imagine worshipping her in life. She was beautiful, don’t get me wrong. Smart, funny, passionate… but she was effed up, too, just like we all are. She was a part of me, and I don’t worship myself. I’m not a supplicant at her altar, even if I am lighting candles like I would at church. She was flighty, and sharp, and she kept an iron door between herself and the rest of the world, kept people away with sarcasm and biting wit. She was wise but jaded, fiercely loyal, and god was she an idiot. She threw herself at life like life wouldn’t fight back – except, of course, it did.
I’ll bet her mother hates it. I’m surprised her father hasn’t taken it away. But I light it first, that candle with the cat. I don’t know how it made it past their defences – but she would have liked it.
Image courtesy of Hayley Mechelle Bouchard. Her work can be found at Little Cat Photography, with more information about Hayley on Our Contributors page.