Flesh and Pine
by Domonique Dierickx Krentz
part 1
I’m well-built. This is not bragging because it’s the truth. That’s why it is so disappointing no one has chosen me yet. Yes, it is true that good things come to those who wait, but it’s frustrating to sit here, collecting dust while those who are flashier get selected day after day. I guess people are attracted to superficial baubles and are satisfied to make a choice based on appearance rather than substance. I don’t want someone like that. When I get a mate, I know it will be because that person — I don’t care if it is a man or a woman — and I were meant to be. So, I wait.
It’s taken some getting used to, knowing that when I am finally chosen, it won’t be a happy occasion. I’ll be happy, of course, but there will be tears on my mate’s side. No one will want to choose me. They will wish they were anywhere else, hating every moment in my presence. But, once the choice is made, they will be happy. Satisfied, at least.
Since I’ve been waiting so long, I’ve had much time to think about what my mate will be like. Not what they will look like, I don’t care about that. I used to think it would be an old man, perhaps a woodsman, maybe a craftsman. Nowadays, my mate could be anyone. Old, young, male, female, rich, poor. Back in the day, people were looking to keep it cheap when they said “pine box,” but now it’s become trendy. Natural. Environmentally friendly. I don’t care how they label it. I’m a good casket, and I’m ready to usher my mate home.
The people at the funeral home, where I live, didn’t buy me from a fancy casket company. I am handmade, right down to the wooden dowels holding me together. I have no nails, no screws, not one stitch of metal or any other material fabricated by man. I came from a ponderosa pine, grown from seeds dropped by another tree. Or by squirrel dung, I can’t be sure. It didn’t hurt when I was felled, in case you’re wondering, and yes, trees do make noise when they fall and there is no one there to hear them. Humans. Overthinking things.
Anyway, a man named Robert built me for a ninety-year old woman whose family decided to have her cremated at the last minute. Robert sold me to the funeral home for one hundred dollars, saying he didn’t want a casket taking up space in his shop and the funeral home was the best place for me.
I’m not complaining. I’d much rather be in a nice showroom than out in a dank shop, but it’s hard to compete with stainless steel, copper, bronze, mahogany, blue, pink, green, white, silver. My roommates were manufactured in a factory, made from metal and engineered wood, stuffed with synthetic fabrics which give the illusion of comfort.
But they have no soul. They don’t communicate. They are eye candy. I take some satisfaction in knowing that those caskets are chosen for what they look like. I will be chosen for what I am. And having this knowledge, I tell myself it’s worth the wait.
* * *
I hear voices. They’re coming closer. Since they sound like adult voices, I reckon they are here for business. Good. I don’t like it when the funeral home kids come in here to play. Their parents, the funeral directors, try to tell the children the showroom is off limits, but they don’t listen.
When they were in elementary school, the boy and two girls thought this was the best place to play hide and seek. As they grew older, their friends wanted to come look at the “coffins,” so we all had to endure the touching then recoiling of adolescent fingers.
When the boy and two girls got into high school... let’s just say I’m glad I was made without any illusion of comfort. The expensive bronze caskets with velvet interiors bore the brunt of those shenanigans. I always felt sorry for the person who would end up buried in a bronze/velvet combo. To think, sealed for all eternity in teenagers’ pheromones. But the children have grown and hardly come in here anymore. I don’t know why I still listen for them.
The showroom lights flicker on and, at once, I can see an unfamiliar man and woman in the doorway. The mother funeral director enters behind them, then steps aside to let the “family” browse for just the right vessel in which to bury their loved one.
This family is youngish; maybe one of their parents died. But tears are still flowing, which is something that has usually ceased by the time they make it here. This feels different. A child may have died, but families don’t come to the showroom for that. There are catalogs for choosing youth caskets because the mother funeral director refuses to keep undersized caskets in the showroom.
The mother funeral director leaves the family to make their choice. She says she will come back in a bit to check on them. She always does this. I’ve heard her tell the father funeral director that she feels like a salesperson if she stays. Most of the time, families like this. They say so. Sometimes, not often, families say they wish she would have stayed. They have questions. I think being around people makes the mother funeral director anxious; living people, anyway.
The family glances around the showroom, holding hands and crying. Their eyes move past the white bronze with the pink velvet interior, past the green 20-gauge steel with the ivory crepe interior, past the glossy mahogany with the creamy velvet interior. Then they see me, back in the corner. They look at each other and squeeze hands, step forward for a closer look. They lay their hands on me, and they nod. Then they embrace and cry. They leave the room without even looking to see how much I cost.
* * *
The minute I see my mate, I know he’s perfect. The father funeral director has done a good job preparing his body, because I can’t even tell what he died from. And it must’ve been an accident, not illness, because I hear the mother funeral director telling the father funeral director she can’t even tell where my mate’s head was caved in.
It’s the night before his funeral, and he is lying on a steel table, his bag of clothes between his knees.
“Hi,” I say.
His head turns toward me, and I can barely see the border between flesh and wax starting in the middle of his forehead at the hairline, twining down at a diagonal across his right eye to his ear. The mother funeral director is right. You can’t even tell.
“Hi,” says my mate.
His voice makes me happy. It’s everything I expected.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Finn.”
“Hi, Finn. I don’t have a name, but I’m yours. You can call me what you want. But you don’t have to call me anything. I just thought it might be easier if you called me something.”
Finn smiles. He has full, rosy lips and wavy blond hair that goes where it wants.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Seventeen. Eighteen in two months.” The smile leaves. “Guess I’m going to be seventeen forever, though.”
“I was seventy-three when I was cut down. I know that seems old, but in tree years it’s not, really.”
“My grandfather is seventy-three.”
“What’s his name?”
Finn smiles again. “Chet.”
“Do you like him?”
“Of course. He’s great.”
“Well then, why don’t you call me Chet?”
Finn turns his head and faces upward. “Alright. Chet.”
“What happened to you? I mean, how did you end up here?”
Finn stares at the ceiling. “A boulder crashed on my head.”
“That must have hurt.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t feel a thing. Barely even saw it coming.”
“How did a boulder crash on your head?”
“I was walking in the woods. I always do. We have fifty acres around our house, and I’ve explored every bit of it.”
“Tell me how it happened, if you don’t mind. I’ve been waiting for you for such a long time, I want to know everything.”
He looks at me again. “What are you? Don’t tell me.” His brown eyes run the length of me. “You’re ponderosa. That’s why they chose you. Our property is covered with your kind.”
“I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“Not at all. I would have chosen you myself if I could. You’re perfect.”
“You’re perfect.”
His smile makes me want to protect him, do my job.
“Well, I was walking in the woods, like always. I was looking for rocks, birds, just getting out in the fresh air. There had been a gnarly thunderstorm the night before, and I wanted to smell the forest. The forest is always better after a rain.”
“I know. We all love a bath.”
Finn chuckles. “I was walking on a trail. I’ve walked it a million times. It butts right up against a cliff, and I should have known better, or at least listened better. Some of the rocks had loosened because of the rain. Earlier in my hike, I had seen where some had fallen from the cliff and rolled across the trail. A biggie came down and I didn’t have time to react.”
“Wrong place, wrong time?”
“Exactly.”
“Are you sad?”
Finn shrugs again. “I don’t know what I feel. Not sad, really. I feel...” — he pauses — “like I just... am.”
“I’m glad you didn’t suffer,” I offer.
“Me, too.”
“So, since I’m here beside you, I’m guessing we’re going to be buried?”
He nods. “Yes, there’s a tiny cemetery near our house.”
“Good. I’m all wood, not one bit of metal, so technically I could be cremated.”
Finn shakes his head. “No. We’re going to be buried. In a nice, peaceful place.”
“Tomorrow’s the day.”
“Yep. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be six feet under. But first they’re going to let people gawk at us.”
I feel a warm rush of pride flow through my grain. Then apprehension. “Do you think people will think I’m good enough for you? There are a lot prettier caskets.”
Finn stares at me. “Anyone who knows me will know you’re perfect.” He smiles.
I feel warm, ready for him to be inside me. “You’re perfect.”
* * *
The chapel has a lot of windows, but they are all frosted glass, I guess so looky-loos can’t intrude on mourners. I’ve been in this room once, when Robert dropped me off, but I didn’t pay attention. I was just happy not to be going in that shop with all the sawdust and broken boards.
I’ve never seen so many people. They are lined up against the wall and standing in the entryway. They might even be outside, but I can’t tell. Finn’s parents are sitting in the front row, holding hands. A teenage girl sits beside them, her head resting on Finn’s father’s shoulder. She looks tired and sad as she clutches a wad of tissues.
The funeral is over, now people are coming up to say goodbye to Finn, and to me, though nobody knows that. Finn looks good, wearing tan Carhartts and a flannel shirt. The father funeral director even put Finn’s hiking boots on his feet, didn’t just place them at the foot end of me.
The father funeral director seems to always do the right thing. He doesn’t take shortcuts. Even though I’m nothing but a pine box, he always dusted me with the same care as any bronze, copper, or mahogany. I wish I could tell him that people are marveling at his work. Nearly every person who approaches comments on how good Finn looks, despite the accident, almost like Finn can sit up and shake hands. Some people just glance at Finn and run away. Those are the teenage girls, notorious for drama and making everything about them. They all seem to need their own personal box of tissues.
A familiar face stands at my side now. She’s the youngest child of the mother and father funeral director. She has seen her fair share of dead bodies, so she doesn’t need tissues; she just wipes her eyes with her fingertips then turns away and squats in front of the girl beside Finn’s father. They hug. They must be friends.
The mother funeral director is at the back of the chapel, asking to make sure everyone has had a chance to say goodbye. They are going to close me up with Finn inside. A few stragglers wander up the center aisle, remove their hats, and nod. When nobody else approaches us, the father funeral director shuts my lid. I hear Finn say, “So long, Dad, Mom, Rachel. Love you guys.”
Then we are rolling on a church truck through a sea of staring, bleak expressions which parts as we draw near. The sea becomes a wake, trailing behind us as Finn and I leave the chapel and emerge into the late-fall daylight.
Copyright © 2026 by Domonique Dierickx Krentz
