exhumation
by Sally Huggins Toner
“Now, pretend you’re a handsome man and look me right in the eyes.” My mother did
as she was told. Her aunt Christine stood, dolled up in a low-cut dress–red silk shiny–
mascara, rouge, eye shadow–bright blood lipstick that left its mark on her smoke as
she blew perfect rings, transfixed her child niece. She took a fresh one out of her pack
put it between those ruby lips, straightened her back, stuck out her chest out a little. “And
the most important thing…” She took a book of matches, lighting one, her dark brown eyes
holding mother’s fast–“The most important thing is eye contact. When a handsome
man lights your cigarette, you must ALWAYS keep your eyes on his.” She blew
out the match, took a puff, blowing smoke to the side as my mother’s
eyes stayed glued to hers. She handed the child a cigarette of her own. Mom says
she doesn’t think her aunt would have let her smoke it. Never got the chance–her mother
interrupted, yelled, “Christine, what the hell are you doing? She’s a baby.”
My middle name is Christine–”I wanted you to have her spunk and her love
of life despite what happens,” mother says. Aunt Christine died at 57
Cancer. I only know the date for sure because my mother bought a headstone half
a century later after cousin Landon took us to her unmarked grave. Paper
covers rock. Rock smashes scissors. Granite holds the names of the dead,
sometimes. Granite held the Ten Commandments–or so the Bible, which is paper, says.
A shoebox holds the Polaroids that prove someone lived—sometimes. All too easy
to get lost, erased. Tombstones cover nothing but the earth and the carbon
underneath that feeds the leaves of next year’s trees. Tombstones cover lies and
the truth. We don't know exactly where she lies. We didn’t excavate her body
any more than I can excavate the facts behind my mother’s stories. What
my mother does remember, what I do believe–her granny’s farm had a porch
with a tub of tin, where they bathed all the children during summer visits.
They had an outhouse too. Once, when she had to go, she heard the boars outside.
She screamed bloody murder–others heard her and came running. Christine knew they were
penned, waiting to be slaughtered, to keep the house alive. But they sounded close.
Photo of Sally Huggins Toner
BIO: Sally Huggins Toner (she/her) has lived in the Washington D.C. area for almost 30 years. Her poetry, fiction, and non-fiction have appeared in Fractured Lit, Gargoyle Magazine, Watershed Review, and other publications. Her chapbook Anansi and Friends was published by Finishing Line Press in 2019. She received an MFA in narrative nonfiction from the University of Georgia. An empty nester with two grown daughters, she lives in Reston, Virginia with her husband