It started with a night spent writhing and hurling puke into a plastic bag lined trash can in the motel. And then when the puking was over, lying perfectly still in the cool recycled air on a lumpy bed wrapped in sweatpants, a hoodie and socks to prevent any skin from touching the bedding. I called the emergency medical center nearby and the woman that answered soothed my anxiety over the poisoning. I hung up, knowing she’s there…that there’s that option – staved off the incoming panic attack.  Eyes closed, headphones on, the TV (Forensic Files) on mute, making sure not to move or the sickness would come back. Breathe in, out. And I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning was crisp, clear and sunny. It was early February in San Marcos, Texas- a small university-oriented town with a population of about 50,000, just south of Austin. We met at the teaching building on the ranch like every day prior, but that day was not for class. I felt astoundingly energetic and bright considering the shitty night of food poisoning I just endured.

We carpooled in groups and headed further into the ranch, chatting a bit, the sun on our faces. When we parked and made our way to the wooden shack just inside the gate, we wrapped our shoes in gauzy white protective covers and some wore masks. I preferred to rub lavender and peppermint oil under my nose, each provided by separate women from class. I had no idea what smells I was in store for but I’ve had my fair share of rotting corpse fragrance, so I figured Easy Breezy. And I was right, it wasn’t as bad as I anticipated.

The first corpse appeared just around the bend after walking through the path to the fields. He was on the left side of the path, 20 ft away, fleshy under the clothes but the arms outstretched on both sides were completely picked clean by the vultures. I remember the bright blue t-shirt, jeans and white sneakers, how they seemed strangely ironic and cartoonish on the decaying body in the field, the grass around him browned. Body burn. At first, seeing him felt thrilling and then he emanated a quiet feeling of peacefulness. Like he was truly laid to rest.

The next few bodies were in metal cages to prevent wildlife interference. These bodies were strictly for studying how the natural elements were to affect the decomposition. There were three of them. The first one had been there for a month and was well on his way, barely recognizable, his white hair and scalp had slipped backwards off the skull. The second body was that of a large middle-aged black male with lots of tattoos. His body was in the bloat stage – belly so distended it looked like it was about to burst – and we were told that what we saw there was probably a 30% increase in body mass in this particular stage of decomposition.  Violently tampering down thoughts of his body rupturing and spewing hot liquid innards onto all of our faces, I could hear the faint sound of him laughing – a deep, hearty echoing cackle heavily punctuated by short pauses. I scanned the faces of the group around me for any reaction and felt pretty sure no one else heard the laughter. But I can still hear it even now and have the feeling I will always be able to recall it.

The third body was that of an old Caucasian woman – you could see her skin turned waxy with spots of yellow and pale blue, a gold necklace glittering in the sunshine, darkened moist spots where the joints sunk slightly. The grad student explained to us that some of those who chose to have their bodies be donated often had special requests. Some wished to be buried with specific items like jewelry or photographs, even their pets. For some reason, I could hear this woman’s voice, as well. She was telling a story about something that happened to her as a girl, no details really – just the pitch of her voice and the nostalgia in her cadence and tonality – but, anyway, I’m sure I was just imagining it.

As our group wrapped around the dried grassy path into a clearing with another set of bodies, some unprotected by cages as part of a vulture decomposition study, others partially covered by objects like a mattress or a tree for various studies, the occasional whiff of decay drifted on a breeze.

The smell is often described using elegantly vile words like “cadaverine” or “putrescine,” and out in the open air, it was bearable if one didn’t get too close. I was already pretty familiar with the fragrance of death, having detected the presence of animal corpses in the rural areas where I spent my childhood and also a specific incident back in 2005, when I was newly living in Philadelphia.

My sister was working at a friend’s boutique in Olde City, a few blocks from where we lived. It was summertime and I had just graduated college, was job-hunting for design jobs while working day and night at local restaurants and clubs. I’d often visit my sis at the boutique and we’d sit out on the stoop when it was slow and listen to music and smoke cigarettes or joints in the muggy August heat. One day, I sauntered through the door and was smacked straight in the senses with that cadaverine smell – so pungent. My sister said the building owner suspected dead rats or squirrels in the walls to be the source. We were like, mmmm yeah…I don’t think so… so we stayed out front trying to bear it. So, we got used to it and went about the day – merchandising jewelry, select vintage pieces and pricey contemporary hipster garb and breathing through our mouths. It wasn’t until a few weeks later that we found out that a man named Rocko had been murdered on the third floor of the boutique building and had been rotting in the apartment in the heat for weeks before he was discovered.

So, that’s where I’ll leave you. Some key takeaways from the workshop: death is but a peaceful decay and the voices and possessions of the dead continue to linger in the ether.