Decompose: (v) to rot; putrefy
My dad died of lung cancer.
It was not a surprise—though death itself offers a certain array of misunderstandings.
He smoked all his life.
Matter of fact, he rolled his own. No filters.
So by the time cancer got to his lungs, the disease already had a climate suited for its purposes.
I was never close to my dad. The last few months of his life, he made a feeble, but noble, attempt to connect with me—but I was sixteen and in no mood for sentimental drivel.
The summer following his demise, I was old enough that I needed money of my own so I could pay for gasoline, dates and some clothes.
I joined a summer jobs campaign offered by the federal government, which paid $1.10 an hour. I ended up working at the community cemetery, mowing the grass around the graves.
I guess I was a little freaked out about it. But it was quiet, and the man in charge of the grounds didn’t hang around, supervising me, which meant I could do things at a pace that honored my laziness.
This was also the location of my father’s grave.
His site was so new that grass had not yet grown up over the pile of dirt. So every time I took my mower by his plot, I said something to him. Since we had not talked much during my growing up years, I thought I would make up for it by chatting to him in his reclining position.
It felt weird at first.
But then I struck up a conversation that prompted me to work more efficiently, actually relishing the time I had, mowing down the departed.
I will never forget, one very, very hot day, there was a smell in the air. It was a combination of rotten tomatoes, vitamins—if you put your nose right up to the jar—with a slight bit of the hay fields that surrounded our town.
It was not an unpleasant odor. After a while, I breathed it deeply into my lungs.
It was the scent of human beings simmering in their graves. It was very natural.
The job only lasted that one summer.
It’s probably good that it didn’t continue.
I was young and didn’t need to be ruminating over the sniff of those who decompose.