Yay Big

FICTION

by Libby Mosher 

If you decide to buy an urn, you may find yourself doom-scrolling in the middle of the night, paralyzed by all the shades of blue flowers on curvy containers meant to spruce up the dead. Nobody likes urns. It’s just what you do. Well, maybe not what Daria does. If you’re Daria, you ask for a little extra time to decide at the funeral home. A box is fine, you say.  

If you are doom-scrolling in the middle of the night, you may find yourself as she does, slipping out of the bed, bare feet meeting cold oak. A gentle hand catches her forearm. Come back to bed, babe comes softly as the sheets rustle beside her. She lets her hand linger over Kenzie’s long, blonde hair, brushes a thumb over her cheek. She steps as though her feet were feathers, playing a game of hopscotch with herself to avoid the memorized creaks on the hallway floor. She’ll stop outside her father’s room, strain, and wait one, two, before her ears pick up the thumps of a heartbeat. Thin and wispy but very much there. She’ll let out a breath, let her heartbeat slow to match her father’s. 

The December air relays the faintest of train horns, only to be heard in the dead of night once the trees have surrendered to the chilled ground. Down mustard yellow stairs, she passes the oven, peeking at the clock that reads 2:34 am. By the light of the fireplace in the next room, she can just make out the outline of the box in the corner of the dining room. 

The box is smaller than you’d think, cardboard, cradling all the carbon left after the water and life is burned away. It was black, but the sun has bleached it slightly. A thick layer of dust has settled on it. It feels sacrilegious to dust an urn. Too horrible not too. On the top, a sticker says her mother’s name and the date of cremation, almost ten years past. It’s curled up in one corner.  She lets the measuring tape snap shut. Five by eight by four inches. Mission accomplished, she revokes the blessing of light, and the dining room returns to darkness. The wooden floors complain beneath her as she creaks up the stairs to hide back under the covers. She pulls her partner’s arm securely around her. A cardboard box is no urn. 

Search History: 

2:42 am urn alternatives 

2:47 am ceramic containers with a lid 

2:49 am ceramic containers floral 

She’ll open twenty tabs, close ten, shut the laptop and slide it under her pillow. Blinking up at the ceiling, she pictures vague baby sheep jumping clumsily over a vague wooden fence. Counts back from 100.  

Search History:  

3:17 am sealable flour container 

3:20 am flour container ceramic sealable 

 “I wanted a drink yesterday” came tumbling out of her mouth earlier that day after her therapist had been sitting quietly for over a minute. To the bane of Daria’s existence, Ms. Girl believes in client-led sessions. 

“Okay,” she said calmly. “And why didn’t you?” 

“I’m trying to go sober,” she said, shifting her eyes down to where she was picking at a rip in her jeans. 

“And why are you trying to do that.” 

“That’s a stupid question. My dad’s dying of liver disease and you want to ask stupid questions?” They don’t talk about her dad much. Or her mother for that matter. She looked up, her therapist unenthused by her indignant outburst. “Fine,” she conceded, knowing her therapist wouldn’t budge. “I wanna drive the car. I don’t want a vice. I don’t want to live a life controlled by something else. I want to drive the car.” It’s an analogy they’ve used before for anxiety. It can stay in the car, but it doesn’t get to drive.  

Her therapist considers this. “I think you should buy an urn,” she said finally. Daria looked up to see her therapist, calm as always, looking back. “The urn for your mother. I think you should buy one before Christmas.” 

“I thought we were talking about sobriety…”  

“It could be good for you to have some closure. Take back a little bit of control in your life. You have some of her clothing and jewelry, right?” Daria nodded but didn’t look up. “Dress up and go buy an urn,” she offered it as if it was simple. 

The final minutes of their session had drained by in a staring contest. Her therapist won.  

“Fucking Donna,” she said, hands gripping the steering wheel as she turns left out of the therapy parking lot.  

“Hello to you too. So, what’d she say?” Kenzie is her girlfriend, but she’s also known Daria longer than almost anyone in her life.  

“She said I should buy an urn.” 

“Maybe she’s right.” 

“We were talking about sobriety.” The line goes silent. She can hear some papers shuffling.  

“Maybe it’s connected.” 

“I don’t drink because my mother is in a little baggy,” she huffed. “What does it matter she spends a little time in a dusty box.” 

“Did you actually call to find out what I think?” She paused, and when Daria didn’t speak, she continued. “I’ll be over a little later tonight. Maybe we can watch a movie? Something your dad might like.” 

That night, after Kenzie left to go back to the apartment they used to share, Daria stands in the doorway overlooking her father in the rocking chair by the fire. It’s hard to see a man beneath the sunken cheeks. Her mother’s passing was sudden, she didn’t have to watch the life drain out of her like her father. She remembers her mother. Dead people have a way of looking dead. It’s a common misconception that they look like they’re sleeping. She remembers following her family to the back of the funeral home. To be cremated, they hadn’t pumped her full of chemicals. Greyish tones poking up through the thin layer of makeup, she looked as though she’d sunken into herself. Gone home. Dead people don’t look like they’re sleeping; they just look dead. Dying people she finds, don’t look much better. Her heart stutters as the fire flickers, shadows dancing on her father’s weathered face. 

It was a night in the middle of May when her mom didn’t come home. The next day, her father and her brother Connor found her in the woods behind their home. It still haunts her how no one found her that day. She’ll never forget the screams piercing through the trees. The moment her heart fell and she just knew. She remembers the screams of her aunt over the phone. Sixteen. The wetness of the grass as Connor told her he’d never leave her. Her father catatonic, the decision to bury or cremate came to her. She decided to take her home with her where she belonged. If all that’s left are ashes, it’s ashes she’ll keep.  

Unable to sleep, she falls down an Instagram rabbit hole of local ceramicists. She picks an artist, drafts a message for the commission of an urn, and deletes it. 

Daria shakes awake at her desk. She didn’t get much sleep the night before. She looks up to see her coworker Stacy above her. 

“Did you say something?” she flashes an apologetic smile and glances back to the blue and white china on her computer screen, rushing to close the tab.  

“Steve is killing me. Keeps asking me to go back over my presentation.” She presses up on her toes as Daria’s notices she has an unconscious habit of doing. “I’m feeling Greek. Come with me?” 

“Right, lunch.” Daria shifts in the dark green pencil skirt that was once her mother’s. “Raincheck?” 

It takes a few more minutes of questions about her weekend before Stacy retreats. Typically, she’d love the interruption from the mundanity that is spreadsheets, but her mind is elsewhere. She opens a new browser. 

You: alternative urns  

Chat GPT1: I'm not sure what you mean by ‘alternative urns.’ Urns are typically containers used to hold and draw items, such as balls, marbles, or other objects. If you have a specific question or need information about a particular type of urn or an alternative use for urns, please provide more context, and I'll be happy to assist you. 

You: containers the size of an urn  

Chat GPT: If you're looking for containers that are similar in size to urns but serve a different purpose, there are various options available depending on your specific needs. Here are some alternatives to urns in terms of container size: 

Vases 

Storage Jars 

Decorative Boxes 

Ceramic or Glass Containers 

Decorative Bowls 

Planters 

Antique Chests 

Daria steps out onto the street, teeming with life. People rush past in their coats and scarves like they were wound up from behind this morning and have no choice but to keep charging forward. A mom with a stroller almost bowls her over as she crosses the street. With an exhale, she shuts the door behind her and steps into the warmth of the home goods store. It’s an upscale boutique, but the only place a walk from her office building. 

“Can I help you?” She looks up to find a man with bright blond hair approaching. 

“I’m fine,” she says, looking away. The man retreats and Daria darts to the garden section. Her eyes flit around, taking in the glossy pottery and all the very open containers. After a few minutes of pacing, the man returns, fidgeting with his rings. 

“Are you sure you don’t—" 

“I’m looking for a container about…” she cuts him off, pulling her hands from her pockets to gesture a nicely sized cat, “yay big.” 

He nods. “What’s it for?” 

“Flour,” she says, but her voice tips up at the end like an off-balance wheelbarrow turning it into a question. His eyebrows quirk. “Or cookies,” she rushes, hoping to recover. 

“You’re in the gardening section becau—” he cuts himself off. “Follow me.” He grants her a polite smile, already many paces ahead. She jogs to catch up, black leather boots squelching on the tiled floor. In the kitchen section, he holds up container after container around the size she’d gestured.  

“I don’t love the word flour on it. What if I decide to put something else in it?”  

He holds up an ornate glass jar. 

“It can’t be clear and I don’t want it to look like it would hold cookies.” 

He nods slowly, like he’s trying to keep up with her train of thought on the flour cookie jar that can’t look like it holds flour or cookies. He holds up a plain white, ceramic container the right size, until he turns it. 

“It can’t have a spoon holder,” she hesitates to say. 

He forces a smile, “What about this one?” He lifts up a large pot with a blue floral pattern and an airtight lid. “It’s nice and light”. 

“It’s gorgeous,” she says, lighting up, then realizes, “It can’t be plastic.” 

“Ma’am,” he responds slowly, as if he’s dredging up patience from the depths of his being. “I’m not sure we have the kind of container you’re looking for.”  

“You do,” she says, her voice more acerbic than she’d intended. “What about that one?” Hiding in the corner of the top shelf is a curious jade container that looks to be enamel. When handed to her, she accepts the weight. “It’s gorgeous,” she says, full of awe and mirth. 

“Is it the one?” He lights up a bit, hopeful. 

“It just might be,” the corners of her mouth begin to lift until her brain flashes through images of her in the dining room, transferring her mother into her new home. The dust-thick box lying dejectedly in the trash can, her mother’s name looking up at her. “I have to go, I’m so sorry,” she says, not looking back as she darts to the door.  

The rest of her day is a string of meetings, which she mostly spends staring at the flakes floating by the window. Her brother calls on her drive home.  

“How’s dad?” 

“He’s… I don’t really know, Connor. He’s dying,” 

The silence stretches on until the words come tumbling out. 

“I’m shopping for—“ she stops herself, not knowing if she dares to cut through a decade of silence. She washes herself in a deep breath. “Christmas gifts for Kenzie. When do you get home?” Luckily, he accepts the new direction of the conversation graciously and she lets his voice fill the rest of her commute home. 

Christmas week comes with haste and suddenly it’s hours before Connor is set to arrive. Kenzie had helped her get a Christmas tree up, decorating the house in seasonal décor from her childhood. She takes a batch of her grandma’s gingerbread cookies out of the oven and heads upstairs to her childhood bedroom to get the last of her presents wrapped. Ever since her dad got sick, she’s been spending all her nights here. Kenzie squeezes onto her twin bed when she can, but lately, she’s been busy finishing her work before the end of the year. Tying the ribbon on the last box, she looks up at the picture above her bookshelf of her mom holding her as an infant. She pictures the jade container in the little home goods store. The decision cements in her bones. Ten years and she’s finally ready. If they’re open tomorrow for Christmas Eve, she’ll slip out before the house is awake and bring it home. 

She’s icing cookies in the living room when the door opens. She runs to the door, Connor dropping his bags and enveloping her in a big bear hug.  

“Hey, sis. Smells good in here. How’s dad?” 

“It’s a hard day today,” she forces a smile. “He’s over by the fire.” 

They walk over to their dad’s favorite chair, where his eyes are closed. She has to lean in and strain to hear his ragged breaths, but she can’t make them out. A tear slips down her cheek. 

Her brother stands next to her in the front room of the funeral home. He’s wearing a black button-up and slacks. She shifts in her light pink blouse, unsettled. The funeral director returns from the back.  

“I have the paperwork right here if one of you could just sign it.” He glances between them. “I can show you the urns we have, they’re in the showroom to my right” He gestures.  

Looking back to her brother, he twists the rings on his fingers. “We should at least take a look,” he says, voice low. Daria turns back to the director.  

“A box is fine,” she says.