I was four.

Opi said it was a wake.

He said, "Marushka, we will go and look." With respect, for the dead.

Dead, I knew to be the not-moving.

The dead man was very important. So many people came to see him.

With respect.

Lying there.

"...a Politician," Opi said. I thought that must be something like a Policeman.

An Officer behind the scenes, at some desk, off duty, no uniform. I saw him armed, with telephone. Important.

He had a pin. On his chest, a little flag, over his silent heart.

People gathered. They looked, pointed. One or two at a time, we filed through. The room was small, or it was really the edge of a hall, a corner roped off.

"Did he hang himself?" asked a boy older, more worldly than I.

"Hush! whatever gave you such an idea?!" scolded his Mother.

"...but Mutter..."

"Sh."

And they stepped out of line, an attendant guiding them to the right Exit.

After much standing around and twisting our brims in our hands, it was our turn to walk along the rope.

The box behind it was lifted high.

So high a grown man could lean in and kiss the dead man's cheek.

For a moment it was just Opi, the deadman, and me.

Opi raised me. The man's face was wet.

Tears? I asked. "Spit," Opi whispered.

Now I noticed the man behind, seated, half-covered from viewing by the casket and fancy skirting.

Eating.

He was eating! And he was crying while eating. He tore into day's old bread, and with dirty hand, wiped sobs. The snot mixing with crumb.

Breaking the bread, with himself.

The back of his hand, wiping and caking his stubble, more, and more with each bite. With each wipe.

I could not turn away.

"Opi!," I said, "What is that beggar doing?!"

"That is the Sin Eater," said Grandfather in the smallest voice, as a hand noisily tossed several cents into a metal bowl at the beggarman's feet and pushed another old loaf upon him. I could no longer tell if he was hungry.

It was now the deadman, the beggar, Opi and me.

I knew Sin was wrong. And here was one man eating up a whole Church week of Communion!

"He is eating the dead man's Sins," Opi said as we turned away.

It was then I tasted Shame.

2024 JUN 15

Now I may be done poor, but I ain't stupid.

Maybe it is I don't know how to read and write, all proper, but I can make the sign of cross and my signature on paper's same as anybody else. The important part, see, is that I understand—and that, more than I let on.

When they tapped me on the street, the Mi'lady and Lord, wanted only that I's should be capable to adequately sign, with scratch marks like so, X.

In the anonymous old traditional way that signifies a living soul was present: Here.

Mi'Lord, he says emphatically, that t'aint necessary I know my spelling, I need only make that universal slash slash on that line right there. See?

Well, I says shrewdly, I don't have my specs, and this to buy me some time to look over the contractual of it, short and to the point as it is, while I sees Mi'Lord give a loving turn of the mouth to the Mi'Lady, as he pats my shoulder and says warmly the "document" signifies that I am entitled to some quick income and free meal, for a short stint, I need only X on the line below, to show that I agree to attend the funeral banquet of the honorable VIP from nth O'clock for no more than one hour or so...

so long as I partake fully in the offertory meal.

I maybe street urchin, but I weren't born yesterday.

I says, affably, where do I sign? squinting at Mi'Lady as she points with plump gilded nail. Bumbling, I make my chicken scratch, signifying anonymous witness, nameless, faceless— all ready, willing and able—to be plucked off.

The dearly departed is to be buried in a fine plot on Ackers Point, they cheers in chorus, the service painstakingly called a Plein-Air. And they lift a noble finger, over the hill just yonder, can't miss it and don't be late, as it starts in a few minutes. Ta tah!

The offertory meal I know is the supposed rightin' of wrongs indulged in by the deceased, dame or bloke. And I as human supplicant am to eat this anti-waffer so that excess Sin may be forgiven.

Twasn't enough Jesus died and rose again.

Twasn't enough the sinner went to church, for show, and tell, at Confession.

This here contract, that I can read well enough, mumbo jumbo, says I will take upon myself, this hungry body, the food and loathing that would otherwise weigh down the soul and keep it from eternal rest. The Sins worth measured in flour. I wonder something about the yeast of evil, and the unleavened, and turn to the hill.

You'll note, I signed.

My tethers, reassuring Mi'Lord and Mi'Lady that I am well qualified, needy and charitable. What they don't knows is that I have even in these rags, pockets and folds sheltering vermin, and they have overlooked, as snobbery does, the feathered cohort that perches on my shoulder.

Dismissed as dumb blackbird of a batty old lady, soon to die as well.

We arrives timely. My feathered companion's well organized socially and signals his compatriots with a few good kracks and kows.  We go to our work. I breaking bits quickly and scattering them, among bird, rat and mice. It takes a good while for anyone to catch on. Minutes, but tis enough. For us it's short work, the birds are flying in steady, five, seven, in patches, hoards altogether... Peppering the ceremony.

There is fear and a consternation.

The same Mi'Lord and Mi'Lady are rushing aghast to my seated person and shooing at the flock that's gathered.

"What the Devil are you doing?! a person must eat this food, not crows!!!"

I know, and I spread my open hands broad and empty...

Like I've no idea what's going on here...

Then I make a show of picking my yellow jagged teeth with a sharp black quill.

I says: "Maybe somebody with better tooth or bigger stomach could take over... " ?

The flock, heavy with feed, rises, menacing beaks and blimp bellies. And Mi'Lady shrieks, Mi'Lord grabs his gun to stop the offertory from getting away...

She is sobbing: "But... We don't eat crow, we don't eat crow...!"

I know.

hunched

in the corner of a room,

in shack just north

of the highest mountain

on a lush hill, that hill

the one square within

the eye of god

gnashing

wiping crumbs from whiskers

alternates, gulps wines, continues

the bodies bake in the heat

the pungencies draw near

the lord's leering gaze

weeping

the woman in black

hair pinned to her crown

sweeps coins from eyes

mumbles words unknown

receding

the eater chases wealth

into the darkened valley

diminished by His watch

"If you eat meat on a Friday, that's a mortal sin," said the priest during Religion class.

"Who says?" I asked.

"The Church says," he replied. "And the Church is the direct extension of Jesus."

"So Jesus said you can't eat meat on Friday?"

"Not exactly. But through those he appointed to carry on his church."

"So, we don't know for sure then?" I prodded. The priest wasn't happy with me.

"That's just the way it is," he said with finality.

"Who says?" I asked again, defying finality.

"I say."

"Are you Jesus?"

"Kind of."

"Wow!" I said. And I was confused. Kind of. "I have a lot more questions, Father."

"You need to go see the principal, Sister Helena."

I'm a sin eater

greedy for dried up moldy scrapes of bread

brown worm infested fruit left for the gods

I'll eat anything other people's transgressions

what are a few more added to my own pile?

So serve me up in a platter large

bulging fat full ready to explode

at the poke of a knife fork prick

pissing vomit half-digested sins

mine & others all over the gods

Very simply, from what is described, the Sin-Eater is a position that provides ample excuse to sacrifice the undesirables of any given village. Those who simply humans deem are unworthy of God in some way, and so very often do pay for it with their lives since one) they're eating off corpses, two) if they have that person's sins than are they now marked as sinful and deemed "acceptable" to further shun and even attack? People can be-- savage and stupid in so few words. And three) they aren't even paid well for the work, at best get a meal infested with maggots and flies for their troubles until they're back to starving by breakfast time and no one to give them the time of day.

The Sin-Eater supposedly such an important task, is not left to the "worthy," not those with souls deemed saintly or innocent. I doubt they think children should be spared for their imbibed purity as God's favorites, God's most precious creations and angels among humans. I doubt such thoughts of who may die or be ill crosses their minds in order to spare those people the strain. Rather, who "should," be ill or dead.

Much more likely is that the Sin Eater is thought of in the ways of virgins sacrificed to mountain gods in Edo Japan, perhaps beautiful but more likely little girls deemed unsuitable for marriage among the boys and demonized by the adults and only family to defend her if she's lucky. Or the unlucky child in 'The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas,' who were blind to a single child's constant misfortune since it forfeits their utopia, which is frankly a sickening principle. It should be that the collectives are safe, that a society is loyal and serves the many-- as many as it can-- and do good by its people.

In any fair world, in any one that supposedly reveres their God as much as they fear him the Sin-Eater should be exalted and do that duty willingly and for selfless purposes if they wish to preserve the meaning in the first place. Then otherwise what kind of fair is it if a person already sinful is tainted with the sin of greed and vanity? Or better yet, the entire ritual poisoned by prejudice, disdain, and apathy?