An Hour with an Etruscan Sarcophagus
|Listen:||An Hour with an Etruscan Sarcophagus||(8:26)|
Not the carved seals or gold libation cups, mummies, alabaster urns. Two minutes alone with this Etruscan sarcophagus and I’m in tears. Nobody saw; I totally got away with it. Something about the stonecutter’s wife, I think— not the rich couple together in stone forever, not even the man who carved the jowly face, the woman’s hands on her husband’s chest, chest doughy even carved in stone. But the wife who knows they don’t get an Etruscan sarcophogus, that even though her Etruscan husband carves them, they can’t have this softening of death, this consolation prize. Last week, midnight in a friend’s kitchen, I burst into tears over what I don’t get, wished aloud I’d gone to Goldman Sachs after college, how then Josey wouldn’t have to work. Rachel put her arms around me, said Shh. Said, Ah, Jill, you’ve made all the right choices. You’ve done everything just right. I’m always wishing for money, for new siding, just one job, a week off for Josey, off her feet. But today, fresh from the Etruscan sarcophagi, I’m bigger, wish for all of us, for you, for the stonecutter’s wife, for your children’s children, such a friend in such a kitchen, such a crying jag, an hour with an Etruscan sarcophagus to think it all over, write it down.