NONFICTION | Christy Rae Ammons Eulogy

NONFICTION

Eulogy

By Christy Rae Ammons

I stand in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, thinking about what will happen when I die. What is there to say about my life? My mouth hangs open, frothy blue toothpaste running down my lips and onto my chin. The sink is full of spit, and I turn on the faucet. If I were to write my eulogy, what would it say?

Christy flossed sometimes. Occasionally, after brushing her teeth, she would remember that responsible humans floss twice a day. She would take a little plastic flosser, as opposed to actual dental floss, and ram it between her teeth until they bled. I’m going to floss every day, she told herself, and then she wouldn’t for several weeks.

Christy wrote sometimes. Occasionally, after staring at a blank Microsoft Office Word document for hours on end, she would remember that words do exist, and that they are accessible. She would slam her fingers into the keyboard until a few paragraphs or pages appeared. Most of the time, she hated those words, but was happy to have accomplished something. I’m going to write every day, she told herself, and then she wouldn’t.

Christy cried sometimes. Occasionally, after holding in her feelings for a long time, she would remember that humans cry. She would put on sad music, get into the shower, and sit on the floor of the tub as water splashed her head and tears ran down her cheeks, indistinguishable from the manmade rain. She would blow her nose into her hand and then let the water wash it away. Her eyes would be red and puffy for the rest of the day, preventing her from hiding the fact that she had sobbed in the shower. I’m not

going to stuff down my feelings, she told herself, and then she did.

Christy ate sometimes. Occasionally, after realizing that it was two in the afternoon and she had been awake for eight hours, Christy would eat a frozen microwave meal, usually Amy’s Mac and Cheese. She would heat it up, scarf it down in a few minutes, and wait for dinner. At dinner, Christy would eat her meal and sometimes ten other snacks. I’m going to start eating breakfast every day, she told herself, and wouldn’t.

Christy was like most people. She liked smoking joints at four o’clock in the morning and watching Spongebob Squarepants. She always complained when it rained, and often forgot to say thank you. She never forgot her dog’s birthday. She was a human.

My reflection is pale and stares coldly back at me. My eyes move to the bag of plastic flossers on the counter. I don’t even bother. What will it matter if a small piece of toast is lodged between my teeth for another few hours or days? I walk to the bedroom and lie down for a nap. I position myself on my back, my arms tucked against my sides. Here lies Christy. She did most things sometimes.