Scotch Tape

My father’s mother wasn’t a particularly gentle person. Most of her life was movie-of-the-week hard, but she survived well into her 90s. She was one of the few people I’ve known personally who enjoyed the discomforts of others, especially when she was the cause. There was a particular secret smile she’d get when a barb hit home, or when someone blew up. It wasn’t a nice smile, but it was a happy one.

Some of her lines were almost funny. The first time I brought a boyfriend to visit her, she showed him some old pictures and said of me, “She was cute as a child. It’s a pity she changed so much when she grew up.” She meant it. He was horrified, but it was so mild for her that I didn’t notice at the time.

Here is the story: Her remains are in a crypt next to her husband’s. He died before I was born. His crypt has the usual plaque, with name and dates and the obligatory phrasing. Hers has a piece of scotch tape with her name printed on it, the kind they put up as a temporary measure until the plaque is made. She died in 1995, and the tape is still there.

I try to visit it every year. I don’t always, but we went today. The tape is still there. Over the years, on the rare occasions when I spoke to that part of my family, I mentioned it. They always act surprised. They say something should be done. Nothing ever is.

Sure, I could buy a plaque. I’m sure the place wouldn’t care who did it. But I haven’t. That scotch tape has become a symbol for me, in a way I’m not sure I can explain. It reminds me about what matters in this world. Besides, it doesn’t seem right to put up a plaque that says “A real bitch.”