The Urn

Liam thought of his mother’s waist-length brown hair and blue eyes. After her golden brown locks began to turn gray, she told the colorist to match the color to the ends of her hair where the natural color remained. Since then, her hair had been just a touch lighter, brightening her face to match her youthful soul. Liam leaned in further between the slightly open door and the wall, and blinked so his contacts would refocus. The Urn was a muddy brown with delicate, flowing blue designs. There lied the gold plate he personally inscribed and melded onto the death vase. It read, “MOTHER.” “What kind of man would steal an urn?” he thought to himself. He turned his attention back to the situation. This was his closure. His mother had saved him countless times, with taxes, rent, shelter, and school – even well into college. Now it was his turn to save her. 1

“So sorry for barging in like this!” he laughed to seem amiable, “Would you happen to have a phone I could use? Technology these days, cars breaking down all over the place.”2

“Yes siree!” the stranger answered. ‘Rrrright over here in our lovely kitchen!” he sounded like a circus announcer as he waltzed his way to the kitchen door. It must have been a nice door at one point, but now it looked like a tooth hanging on by one gum thread.3

“Our kitchen?” I asked. I wanted to make sure there was no one else home when I confronted him.4

“Getting a little too friendly? I don’t swing that way, soorryy!” He spun around as he sung the word “swing.” This man must be on something. Crack? Acid? Whatever normal was, this man was not it. 5

“I meant, is there anyone living with you? A wife? Kids? Husband...?” His entire face slightly squinted at the last question. The stranger’s smile remained, but his eyes softened. He scrambled through nearly every drawer in the kitchen. With his back turned, he began speaking in a melodramatic tone.6

“I live..” his arm raised to his face and he turned around. “aloooooone!” He held a Greek “tragedy” theatre mask in front of his face and slouched to the side in a single heaving motion. He looked like a deflated soufflé impersonating the Tower of Pisa. 7

“And the phone is...where?” The stranger mimed a secretary sitting at a desk. Liam guessed, “An office?” The stranger nodded. “You have an office in your kitchen?” The mime wagged his finger and frowned. “Next to your kitchen?” The stranger danced as if he belonged in the Baroque Era, clicked his heels and pointed down the hall as if he were suddenly transformed into a statue. As Liam walked past him, only the stranger’s eyes moved.8

Just as Liam was approaching the end of the hall, he turned around Michael Jackson style. “You stole my mother!” The stranger, turned mime, broke from his statue impression and in slow motion, put his hands on his chest and threw himself back as if the Santa Ana winds had gathered right in front of him, and puffed in one swift, strong blow. He was taken aback.9

“Meeee? Mothernap? Never!” He tiptoed sideways back into the kitchen. 10

“I saw it! The urn I bought! The plate I engraved and I melded! Why? Couldn’t you have stolen a watch, or clothes? Something unimportant? Something simple?” Liam followed after, taking large steps. 11

“I,” the stranger paused. “am not a simple man.” A shadow nearly cast over his face, but Liam made himself believe it was his imagination.12

“I am taking back what is rightfully mine, Mr....?”13

“Zook,” he annunciated the “K” so sharply, it almost clicked through the room. “Zook Spurnicheinstein.”14

“Alright. Look, Zook. I want my mother back.”15

“She’ll never come back, you know.”16

“I did not mean it that way. I meant I want her ashes and my urn back in my house.” Liam walked until he reached the foyer. He grabbed the urn and was making his way to the door when he heard a sloppy sound behind him. The stranger took a giant sticky hand, threw it over his head like a lasso, and harnessed the urn. 17

“Don’t – !” Liam shouted, but his words made no impact on the sticky hands’ adhesive powers. The hand pulled away and the urn came crashing to the ground. Her hair, her eyes, scattered in little broken pieces. Other parts of her, mixed dust.18

“NO!” He cried in denial. “No, no, no, Mom...” he crouched by the dust as his voice softened, “Mom?” After a beat of silence, he angrily faced the stranger, “How could you?! How the hell does that help you at all?! You can’t sell that now! and I can’t have her back now!” Liam’s voice was louder than he’d intended.19

“I didn’t want it, to sell it.” When the stranger said “sell,” his tongue seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth longer than necessary. Liam stood in silence. The stranger continued, “I was hungry.”20

Liam watched helplessly as the stranger enjoyed his meal.21