I always hated that damn marble wall. It was too gray. Too tall. Too utterly depressing. Every time I had to go, it was as if a million tiny claws were dragging me there by my tailbone. So I got down on my knees, as I always did, and talked to a wall that never talked back. 

“What do I do now?” I asked the sad stone. 

It sat there, as walls do, unmoving and smooth. This wall that I had known my entire life ignored me as if I was an old classmate in the grocery store line. A rush of cold air chilled my bones, and I glared at the stranger who dared to open the door. But they only passed on by, flowers in hand, sniffling and dragging their feet. 

“I’ve lost everything. My job, my house, the kids. And I’ve been diagnosed. The doctors say it’s fatal.”

I touched the name carved into the marble wall, then the dates under it. Dates that were too close together. I flattened my palm against it, willing myself to get closer, but the wall was freezing. After some time, and as my legs grew stiff and mind weak, a ghost appeared, translucent and far too-detailed. I gasped in relief and reached for the figure, but my hand met only air. That ghost once laughed at this very wall.

“God, I hope I never end up in one of those things. I’d rather be burned.” They explained how it felt too much like the shoe section at a discount department store. Boxes piled haphazardly on top of one another, accompanied by the smell of waxed floors and dead flowers. 

We leaned up against the wall, and I had no idea what would come next. Would I wrap myself up like a potato salad on a warm Friday afternoon and accept my fate? Ending up in the wall, another shoebox, or begging the county to cremate my remains? I slid down the wall. Truth be told, none of it felt right, and maybe it shouldn’t. The ghost stared back at me and I knew there was only one choice.