Funeral Story

First things first: this is a story. It is not true. The main character does not in any way symbolize me. For one thing, he's a guy. I am not a guy. Get it? Good.

The absolute worst part about Mom dying is this viewing. For the better part of two hours, I’ve been standing in a corner next to Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa in some sick sort of reception line as person after grim faced person passes. Those who speak have absolutely meaningless, empty things to say. Things that comfort them rather than me, and make them feel like a compassionate and shining saint. Things like “I am so sorry for your loss” or “I know that she’s happier now”. Or that ever asinine question “How do you feel?” I never answer this query. I stare the person down, let them think about what they just asked me. I watch them blink and blush, then give a flustered apology and hurry away. Out of all the people here that I hate, the ones who ask that question take the cake. My cousins could give them a run for their money, though. The awkward ones who are dragged over by their parents and forced to stand before me, looking at the ceiling, their shoes, out the window, anywhere but my eyes or inside the casket...it takes all my energy to keep myself from punching every one of them in the face. One cousin took me by surprise, however. After a full five minutes of uncomfortable silence and a staring contest with her fingernails, this girl charged me down and threw her arms around my neck in a chokehold. My body stiffened at this attack, arms welded soundly to my sides. After a tense three or four seconds, she backed off. Our eyes met. She blushed, then whipped around and sped off after her overly distraught mother, whose sobbing was shaking plaster from the walls. I swear she was in such a hurry, she left skid marks on that floor.

I don’t know how much longer I can take this. My tie is slowly constricting around my throat, cutting off my air supply. Making it impossible to scream. I want to. Long and loud until I pass out and don’t have to feel or think anymore. I want an end, I want nothing.

I’m on the floor. How’d I get on the floor? It’s cold, it’s so cold...and my knees hurt. What’s that noise? There’s a strange ripping sound, unlike anything I’ve ever heard before...hands. Hands everywhere. Someone’s talking. “Here, I’ll take him. Let me take him.” All the hands disappear, except one on my hand. Soft and cool. Lips near my ear. Light breathing. A whispered, “Come with me.” This voice is female. It’s low enough to be a male’s, but it is most definitely female. I’ve never heard this voice in my life. I am intoxicated by it. Maybe this is the reason I get to my feet and follow this woman, this woman with the strange voice. It’s not until I’m being led slowly away that I realize the sound I’d heard earlier, the ripping, was coming from me. I’m crying. Blubbering like a baby. And I don’t care. My sobs continue as we travel down several dark hallways, this woman and me. We stop at a sofa. She releases my hand for a moment to sit, then gestures that I should do the same. Before I know what’s happening, I’m sprawled across the sofa, my head buried in the woman’s lap, and I’m shaking all over and sobbing loud enough to wake the dead. The woman doesn’t hush me or tell me “It’s ok, it’s alright...” As a matter of fact, she doesn’t say anything at all. She just lets me soil her dress with my tears, all the while combing her fingers through my hair or tracing patterns along the pinstripe of my suit with her fingers. This should all be very strange to me. I acknowledge this as I shudder and sniff childishly into the skirt that has become my handkerchief. But somehow...it feels very natural, and I’m far from bothered by what is happening.

When my sobs eventually give way to occasional gasps, and the awful shudders become tremors in my hands, I sit up and take a look at the woman whose skirt I have just ruined. My breath catches in my throat. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Her skin is as white as paper, and as delicate looking as porcelain. Her hair is the blackest I’ve ever seen, and cropped short, ending at her chin. Her eyes are a deep, deep blue. Practically navy. Her dress matches her eyes precisely. Her feet are bare, and it’s not until I see her feet that I notice a certain...glow emanating from her. Very faint, like a night light, but still distinct and there, shining through her skin. I am frightened by this. Am I insane? Is it a trick of the light? It is absolutely impossible to tell.

After several minutes of simply studying her, mouth agape and everything, I realize something. She has been looking at me in very much the same way I’ve been looking at her. Full of wonder and interest, as if she’s never seen anything like me before. She reaches out and runs her fingers along the lines of my brow, where it is crinkled from confusion and intrigue. I open my mouth to ask who she is...but at the last moment, Mom pops into my head. And I can’t help it. Story after story, memory after memory, comes tumbling out in an avalanche of words and emotions that I am suddenly too small to contain. I don’t know how much time passes. It could be minutes, it could be hours. It could even be days, I cannot tell. The beautiful strange woman doesn’t speak or appear to loose interest. She nods and smiles and laughs. I love her laugh. I found myself searching for more funny memories in the outpouring to share, simply to hear her laugh again. It is like music. Beautiful, tinkling music. I’d do anything to hear that laugh. Die, even. I’m certain of it.

I’ve been speaking for so long I cannot speak anymore. And suddenly I feel exhausted, as if I’ve been running for miles. I’m fighting tooth and nail to keep my eyes open. The woman takes my head and her hands and guides it to her shoulder, and holds it there, stroking my hair again. I’m drifting now, I know it. I fight to keep awake. There’s something important I have to ask her. “Are you...are you an angel?” Now that I’ve asked it, it seems childish. I wish I could take it back, but it’s too late. The question has been released into the atmosphere and demands an answer. I wait expectantly. But she only laughs.

I fall into a dreamless sleep. When I awake, the beautiful woman is gone. There is absolutely no evidence of her being there. I look out the window. It is pitch black. Dad must be wondering where I am. I rise to my feet and leave.