Ofrenda by Katie M. Zeigler

Ofrenda
by Katie M. Zeigler

On the plane ride home from the funeral, Iris sits with an empty seat between her and an elderly woman. Lifting the armrest between them to allow her thighs to spread comfortably, she considers the large paper bag the woman holds protectively on her lap. When Iris must pass by in order to use the restroom, the plane lurches, sending Iris knocking into the woman and crumpling the bag slightly. The woman gasps dramatically and Iris apologizes, more profusely than she thinks necessary. In the bathroom, Iris’ curiosity rises. She recalls a podcast she listened to with Judith, something about a woman who visited elementary classrooms with a sealed box. She had the children sit in a circle and pass the mystery box around, attempting to guess what was inside. They shook the box and threw out dozens of ideas until the excitement faded and the children just wanted to know, quite desperately, what was inside. Open the box! they said. Show us what’s inside!  But the woman didn’t open it. She told them that was not part of the game. And the children became belligerent; unable to face the mystery. Apparently, that was her intention; to teach children how to sit with uncertainty. 

Iris thinks of this and the paper bag. She could ask, of course, but she won’t. And for a moment, she dislikes the old woman very much, for introducing this mystery precisely when Iris’ life feels quite unknown to her. What comes next is terrifying and just as irritating as the box in the children’s hands. 

The real memorial had taken place weeks earlier in their little house in Oakland; an evening of everything Judith loved. Marla had catered it and laughed when she saw the menu Judith had requested. Hot dogs with top-split buns and a casserole Judith invented called Hopple Popple. There were Hawaiian rolls and Rice Krispie treats and gin martinis served with pearl onions. 

“It’s what they’ll serve at the buffet where I’m going,” Judith had said when she dictated that exact menu to Iris. She was always careful not to say Heaven.

In contrast, the funeral Judith’s parents organized felt empty of everything good. 

But Judith had asked her to go.

“Even if it’s just to piss them off,” she’d said.

And so, Iris had flown to Boston and sat in the second pew from the front. It was a cold day, and Iris shivered through most of the ceremony. Whispers spread like incense and she let them, smug in the knowledge that there was no body for this congregation to visit or bury. Judith’s mother had screamed into the phone about needing a body. But Judith’s body, the body Iris had loved for so long, would stay atop the little ofrenda in the corner of their living room. Light as dust and hers. 

Now, Iris tries to not think about the paper bag by thinking of Judith’s face. Of her bare feet on their wedding day. Of the expanse of her body and the red moles along the curve of her breasts. 

When the old woman goes to the bathroom, she takes the bag with her, holding it with one hand and steadying herself with consecutive headrests along the way.  By the time the plane descends, Iris’ gratitude for heading home has turned to a rising anxiety. She’s happy to recognize the hills, still golden even for October. But soon she’ll walk inside their little house, surrounded by everything of their life but the life itself. 

She starts to cry, just as the plane lands and a few people at the back of the plane applaud. There is a great rush to unbuckle and gather carry-ons, and Iris just sits and cries, careful to hold her face tight against the window. When she finally turns, the aisles are empty, but the old woman still sits, paper bag atop her lap. Iris rushes to wipe her face, and something shifts in the old woman’s eyes so that when she reaches out and touches Iris’ hand, so lightly it could be a breath, it is not altogether unexpected. And they sit this way, not speaking, until the flight attendant requests, quite nicely, that they “better skedaddle” so the cleaning crew can come aboard. 

Iris loses sight of the old woman after they exit the plane. She hasn’t checked a bag, so she walks slowly through the terminal before heading out to meet her Uber. Outside, the sidewalk is noisy, interrupted by the sharp whistle of the traffic monitors berating drivers who don’t move quickly enough in or out of their spots. Then, through the rush, Iris sees the old woman, standing alone with the paper bag still clutched in her hands. Moving closer, she watches as a large SUV pulls up and an entire family spills out: man, woman, and three small children who hug the old woman ferociously around her middle and the tops of her legs. Iris feels ashamed for watching, but keeps her eyes fixed on the reunion. And when the old woman places her purse on the ground and opens the flap of the brown paper bag, the children bounce in anticipation. Then, the old woman tips the bag upside down, and a cascade of autumn leaves falls from the bag, covering the children’s heads as they squeal with delight. The bag seems to hold an impossible number of leaves, a river of reds and oranges and yellows that fall around the children, some leaves catching in their hair, some falling to the ground where the children gather them and throw them into the air again. 

By the time Iris gets home, it is dark and Iris stands at the front door, holding her keys in the hand the old woman touched. What waits inside is both known and unknown. But, thinking of the body that waits for her, so patiently, atop the ofrenda, Iris steps into the mystery, opening herself to what might come.

Bonus audio of Katie reading her story…

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