In Which Our Intrepid Blogger Considers Buying a Human Bone, But Doesn't
“Maxilas and Mandibles.” That was the name of the bone store.
I'm visiting a friend in NYC. “You've got to see this one,” he says, so we go.
The store is long and narrow as a coffin. The bones are beautiful.
“Do you have any human bones?” I ask. It would be cool to have a femur to beat the drum with at Samhain, right?
Right?
Femur in hands, I kneel down on the floor. This was, after all, part of someone's body once. Always ask before you take.
Something's wrong. My heart is pounding, the sweat is pouring off of me. “Where is this from?” I can barely manage to get the words out.
“India, I think,” says the clerk.
Gods. Who knows what the story here is? I rise. I don't want this thing. I don't want it in my house; I don't want it in my city.
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Mr. Posch, I think that would be totally OK, for whatever it's worth. -
Maybe when I die, I'll will my femur (the left one, of course) to the temple so that we can beat the drum at Samhain after all. Bu -
Mr. Posch, Oh my Gods. I would have felt the same way. Human bones do not belong in brick-and-mortar retail stores. Ghastly. T
